I sat on the edge of the bathtub for a long time after the test told me the truth, turning the same question over and over in my head.
Should I tell him.
I ran through it a dozen different ways. I imagined walking into his study and setting the test on his desk without a word. I imagined saying it plainly, "I'm pregnant," and watching his face for whatever came next, cruelty or panic or something worse, indifference. I imagined every version of that conversation, and every single one of them ended with me too afraid to knock on his door.
He was still a stranger in a lot of ways. A stranger who had married me to punish me, who had a secret investigation running behind my back, who had an uncle capable of leaving threats in my luggage. I didn't know yet if telling him would make me safer
