Page 50 of Love in the Countdown

My cock hardens at the thought of calling Emily my wife. My wife. Nothing sounds sweeter than the sound of calling her my wife.

The timeline is much faster than either of us expected, but it feels right.

The thought of marrying Emily feels right. It makes sense. We make sense. My heart swells, overflowing with the promise of our life together.

Everything happens for a reason, and sometimes you have to make mistakes. It’s too bad it was an expensive mistake. Next time, the ring I buy will be for just one person, and she’s right here with me.

I turn on my side and prop my head on my fist. Looking down at Emily’s sleeping form, her face relaxed in sleep, lips parted slightly as she snores. I can’t help the squeezing in my chest at the idea of spending the rest of our lives together.

She’s the one, as cliche as it sounds. I’d known for a while but have been ignoring it until now. There’s no use denying it anymore.

Life is about to change for us both.

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Based on my missed period, the doctor had estimated that I was about seven weeks pregnant when I called them the following day. It was too soon for them to see me, so they had me make an appointment at the nine-week mark. Between then and now, I’ve taken several more tests which showed the same results. I guess I won’t really believe it’s happening until I hear that heartbeat or see the little bean on the ultrasound.

I told Ben when my appointment was, and since it was during the work week, I didn’t expect him to come, but he shocked me and took the day off so he could be at my side. He must have seen the shock on my face when he told me he was coming with me. He kissed me on my forehead and said sweetly, “We’re in this together, tiger.”

While a part of me knew it wasn’t like Ben to let me handle things on my own, another more jaded part of me expected to only rely on myself to get through this life-changing moment. The thought of never being alone again brings tears to my eyes. My pregnancy hormones are making me emotional.

That’s how I ended up in my obstetrician’s office, wearing only a flimsy gown I’d been told to put on like a bathrobe. The table is cold underneath me as we wait for the ultrasoundtechnician to return. Ben’s sitting in the chair next to me, lending me his quiet strength as we wait anxiously. I know he’s nervous by the bouncing of his knee.

A knock precedes the entry of an older woman who introduces herself as the technician. She goes over the procedure so we know what to expect. She instructs me to lie back as she turns on her machine and dons a pair of medical gloves.

“Sorry, this may feel cold.” I try not to flinch at the coolness, and the next thing I know, she’s placing the wand over the goo. After a few sweeps, she finds what she’s looking for; then, with some clicking of the buttons on the ultrasound machine, the rapid rhythm of a heartbeat floods the room.

Ben’s hand clenches in mine as we stare at each other in awe. Tears well up in his eyes as we listen to the sound of the baby’s heartbeat fill the room—our baby. I smile at him, and he places a chaste kiss on my lips. The ultrasound technician takes a few pictures and prints out a handful for us. She informs us that the doctor will have to go over the results with us as she cleans up her mess.

“Congratulations!” she shouts before waltzing out the door.

The doctor comes in shortly after. She’s in her mid-fifties and has a warm smile on her face. As she sits down on her stool, she introduces herself and informs us I’m measuring to be about nine weeks along. The estimated due date would be around the end of February. She explains that she’ll be ordering some bloodwork, and then she’s gone before I can even think of questions to ask her.

Ben helps me get dressed, and we walk out hand in hand to the receptionist to book my next appointment. It isn’t until we’re both in the car that we turn to look at each other and hug.

“We’re having a baby!” Ben cups my face with his warm palm and stares at me with so much warmth and affection in his eyes it makes my heart hurt.

“We’re having a baby,” he echoes, then kisses me gently.

We make love later that night. Our movements, which are usually frantic and desperate, with both of us eager to touch one another, are slower and more reverent tonight as if we have all the time in the world. It feels like he’s worshipping my body and the miracle we made together. If I had any more doubts about how Ben feels about this unexpected pregnancy, he washes away my worries with each caress of his gentle hands and the soft kisses he showers me with.

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The rest of the first trimester drags by. I am crippled with intense fatigue and morning sickness that persists all day long. I want to beat whoever coined the term “morning sickness” with a bat until they’re a bloody pulp. Morning sickness gives me the illusion of hope that I will feel better as the day progresses. It should not send me running to the bathroom dry heaving at random times throughout the day. My appetite has been nonexistent, thanks to the ever-present nausea and dry heaves. The bright side? I haven’t actually lost any of my meals yet.

The fatigue is on a whole other level. Most nights, I am in bed and knocked out before the clock has struck 9 p.m. I don’t wake until the alarm blares its horn the next day. I drag my exhausted self through my morning routine, and work feels like torture. I count the minutes until I can go back to bed again. On my days off, I sleep in until mid-morning.

I have little energy most days, and my workouts have been pathetic, but I feel optimistic that things will get better soon. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me about how wonderful the second trimester will be. I haven’t started showing yet, but I feel bloated and disgusting. I have so muchmore respect for pregnant women now that I’m going through it myself.

Ben and I have been spending our evenings researching what to expect when adding another person to our still very new relationship. He doesn’t seem worried about our future, but I am riddled with anxiety about what comes next. I have yet to meet his parents, and I know he hasn’t told them much about our unexpected news. From what he’s told me about them, they seem like nice people. We have dinner plans with them this weekend, and I’m queasy just thinking about it.

Meeting Ben’s parents will also serve the purpose of letting them know that they’ll also be grandparents. It makes me wonder how I should handle telling my parents. I haven’t seen or talked to them in years. My father and I get along fine, but he’s a passenger in the relationship while my mother is the driver. She’s the reason for many of my childhood traumas that have echoed into my adult life.

My mother met my father when she was just a teenager. My grandmother had fled her home country with her six kids and the clothes on their backs in search of a better life—the all-American dream of better opportunities and freedom from an oppressive government regime. Upon entering the country, they stayed with family members and had to travel every few months. It was on one of those trips that my parents met.

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