Pregnancy tests should have come with instructions for what to do after your entire life is split in half.
The box only told me how long to wait.
Three minutes. Only three minutes.
It did not say what to do when the three minutes ended and two pink lines appeared like a verdict from a universe with a very cruel sense of humor. It did not say whether to scream, cry, laugh, throw the test across the bathroom or sit very still until your body remembered how lungs worked.
It did not at all. It just gave me three minutes. Three f*****g minutes.
So I sat.
I sat on the edge of my cousin’s bathtub in a borrowed T-shirt, with bare feet pressed against cold tiles and my hand clamped over my mouth as if sound itself might make the truth more permanent.
Pregnant.
The word was too large for the
