Two months later;;
I re-read the instructions, doing my best to flatten out the piece of paper using one hand while the other held the test. Two lines meant positive. Two lines sat on the test. No, not possible. My gaze darted back and forth between the two, willing one of them to change. I shook the test and turned it this way and that. I stared and stared, but just like with the first one sitting rejected beside the sink, the answer remained the same.
Positive.
I was pregnant.
“Fuck.”
The word echoed around and around the small bathroom, bouncing off the white-tiled walls and beating at my head. This s**t shouldn’t be happening to me again. I didn’t break laws or do drugs. Not since that blip after Dad left.
I behaved. Mostly. But those definite neat pink lines stood loud and proud
