Now

I’ve never really excelled at taking tests, but even I can pee on a stick. Once the deed is accomplished, I take a deep and cleansing breath and set the test on the counter, resisting the urge to nibble my chipped, neon-blue thumbnail as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

As bad as I am at tests, I’m usually pretty good at waiting. Some optimists see a glass filled partway and call it half full; I’ve always been the kind of optimist who can look at a cup that contains a single drop of water and imagine that cup overflowing—with Mountain Dew. I am practically a professional at daydreaming a bright side into existence when really there is none.

But now? Standing in an enormous, sparkling marble bathroom bigger than my first apartment, waiting to see if a second pink line appears on that stick, I look from the pregnancy test to the ring on my left ring finger: a deep red stone that glows almost black in some lights. It’s a garnet, not a ruby, and he cut the stone himself.

It’s perfect.

I think about the man who put this ring on my finger, and for once in my life, I don’t daydream anything. I remember.

And remember.

And remember.