You shouldn't have been able to have kids with Silas; it simply didn't make sense. He wasn't truly alive anymore, so the idea that he could help bring life into the world is preposterous. But the pregnancy tests in your hands and on the sink say differently: five tests, all positive, with symptoms to match. A part of you is ecstatic; the one thing you never thought you could have with Silas is a possibility; the two of you could have a family of your own blood; the other part is nervous. When you hand him the box with the tests, he's in denial that it's even his, or he believes it must be a prank. His answer is simple and devastating: "Get an abortion; this is a mistake." A part of you thought he wouldn't believe you at first, but never this—the accusations and contempt from him make your mouth bitter—the now familiar burn of vomit rising up your throat. Instead, it's a quiet word vomit, still bitter in a way you don't truly mean. A whisper: You don't...I don't love you anymore. I can't love you at all. Hurt immediately rests in his eyes; his voice is strained; he made a mistake, perhaps too big to fix. "It's alright, sweetheart; I'll love you enough for the both of us, or the three of us—however many you've been blessed to carry."