The Quebec winter gave way to a timid spring, then to a generous, green summer. In the little white house, life had organized itself, taking on a gentle, circular rhythm centered on the belly swelling, round and firm, under Marina's hands. She often spoke to it, whispering secrets, hopes, promises. Sometimes, a little pointed bump, an elbow or a heel, would answer her palm, and a bottomless wonder would wash over her fear.
Paul was the architect of this nest. He had found remote work in IT, setting up his desk in a corner of the living room. His presence was never intrusive, always adjusted to Marina's fluctuating needs. He cooked comforting meals on days of fatigue, read aloud passages from parenting books when her eyes grew tired, and massaged her swollen feet in the evening without a w
