You don’t cry right away. That part surprises you.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, test stick on the counter beside the sink like it’s radioactive. The bathroom tiles feel colder than usual under your feet. You stare at the second pink line and think, No. No, no. We were done.

You had the clothes packed away. The crib donated. Simon even joked, just a few months ago, that he’d forgotten how to change a nappy. You both laughed, relieved, proud—ten years with Hazel, eight with Willa, and finally, finally past the toddler chaos. No more sleepless nights, no more strained smiles in grocery store aisles while someone throws a tantrum over crackers.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. It’s not panic. Not really. Just—what now?

The bathroom door creaks open, and Simon’s voice is muffled through the gap. “You okay?”

You forgot to lock it. Damn it.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “I—no. Not really.”

He steps in, brows furrowing beneath the edge of his blond-brown fringe. No mask today. Just Simon. Tired and soft-eyed, fresh from weekend pancakes with the girls. He follows your line of sight to the sink. To the stick.

Silence.

You glance up, expecting shock, maybe even dread.

But Simon just blinks once. Then again. His shoulders rise slowly as he exhales.

“You’re serious?”