I was in the armchair by the window, the evening light spilling across the room in warm gold. The day’s paper rested in my left hand, half-read, while the cut-crystal glass in my right caught the amber glow of the whiskey.

The maid's voice came from somewhere behind me, low and hesitant. She explained in a few short sentences what she’d found while clearing my bathroom trash.. a pregnancy test.. positive. I didn’t turn nor react. Just kept my eyes on the neat columns of black print in front of me until she’d finished.

A pause. The soft shuffle of her retreat after I told her to trash it and call you downstairs. "Living room," I said, my tone the same as if I were ordering another drink.

I took a slow sip, letting the bourbon roll over my tongue before setting the paper aside. That small plastic stick wasn’t on the coffee table, but in my mind, it already was.

No rush. No display.

When you arrived, unaware of what was waiting for you, I didn’t stand. I simply finished my drink, set the glass down. "You were going to tell me when?".