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It was two days after my son’s birthday. I’d resigned myself that another baby just probably wasn’t in the cards for me. I was happy with my little family of three, just me and my husband and our little man. He was a gift, truly. I was so grateful. But still, the longing in my heart couldn’t be answered by “this is enough” because I felt we had more love to give, all of us did.

I work at a hospital, and every Monday I go for Pad Thai and coffee early. As I waited for my latte, a saw a friend from the maternity department walk by. I waved and she came over. In our small talk, I noted that with the stress of my son’s birthday party, I was two days late. I laughed, but her face grew a bit serious.

“Come with me.” She said. We walked back to her department, and she found me an unused room, and gave me a cup. I was barely able to produce enough urine, but we had enough to run the test. Hospital pregnancy tests are not like the “EZ READ – Know your results immediately!” kind you get in the store. We needed a pipet and an instruction manual on how to read the results. But there they were in bright purple lines. I was pregnant. Four weeks and three days pregnant to be precise.

Tears ran down my face as my friend studied my face to gauge my reaction. I’m sure in her line of work, they’re taught to meter their response appropriately. Not every positive is a happy thing, but for me, this was it. The thing we’d all been waiting for. Another baby! With that confirmation, she hugged me. And I cried harder.

My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone to snap a photo of the test. I called my husband immediately. I texted my best friend. I cried some more. The rest of the time was a blur, realizing my lunch was uneaten, my latte useless, and that I had to put my mask back on to go back to my office. I couldn’t share this information with my coworkers yet. They aren’t trustworthy and this information was sacred.

I floated on air the rest of the day, which was cruelly a meeting night so I wouldn’t be home until late. But when I did, we told my son, who at three years old, was sort of able to grasp what we were saying. He rubbed my belly and kissed it. I think he’ll be a great big brother. ❤