He was not home by seven. Seven-fifteen I texted him. Seven-thirty I called. Seven forty-five, I sat on the couch and watched the door with the patience of a woman who had been disappointed enough times to stop being surprised by it.
He walked in at eight-twenty.
"I said seven," I told him.
"The meeting ran over. I called—"
"You texted me at seven-fifty to say you'd be an hour. That's not a call, and it's not seven o'clock."
He loosened his tie. "I'm here now."
"Okay." I stood up. "Sit down."
He sat. He looked at me with the wary attention of a man who knew something large was coming but had not yet calculated its size.
I did not sit. I stood in the center of the living room because I needed to be on my feet for this.
"I'm pregnant," I said.
The silence that followed had weight.
