My eyes flick anxiously to the timer on my phone screen. Two minutes and seven seconds left—only about ten seconds less than the last time I checked, though it feels like an eternity has passed. The bathroom's bright overhead lighting seems unnecessarily harsh today, highlighting every imperfection in my reflection as I try to avoid looking at what sits on the counter.
On the other end of the expansive bathroom counter, partially obscured by an ornate soap dispenser that probably costs more than my old monthly rent, sits the pregnancy test I just took. The small plastic stick holds answers that could permanently alter the trajectory of my life. I've made a solemn promise to myself not to glance at it until the full three minutes have elapsed. The package insisted on waiting that long for
