26
Sara
After my parents leave, Peter and I drive to my office, where I draw a vial of blood. A few minutes later, we have the official confirmation.
I’m five weeks pregnant.
I’m also ravenous, since I threw up the only food I’ve eaten today. “I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” I tell Peter, so he stops by a small pizzeria on the way.
I’ve never been to this place before, and I’m pleased to discover that though we’re the only customers right now, their pizza is the real deal, as good as anything I’ve had in fancier places. The only fly in the ointment is that the TV is on, showing the aftermath of the attack, and the owner—a plump, middle-aged man who speaks with a strong Italian accent—keeps talking to us about it as we eat by the counter.
“Such an awful, awful event,” he
