About five and a half weeks ago R and I threw caution to the wind, gave it one last try. Again.

Three weeks ago I took a pregnancy test, knowing already what I’d see: two lines. Pregnant. Again.

Three hours ago, I started bleeding. Again.

* * *

This time, we’d decided not to tell anyone. We spent the weekend in the US with my parents, me drinking water instead of beer or wine, no one asking any questions, but noticing, I’m sure.

We had just finished eating dinner and were having a bit of a dance party before packing up the car and heading home when I felt something not right. I went into the bathroom and there it was: the beginning of the end of another pregnancy. I didn’t have any pads with me, so I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper, just like I did when I was twelve and got my first period and didn’t want anyone to know.

We packed up the car and said goodbye to my parents. There was a half moon glowing bright in the darkening blue of the sky and a mist lying low in the fields as we drove the country roads toward the border. It was so fucking beautiful and I carried this secret inside me. The secret revolt of my body. A mama deer and her baby dashed out into the road in front of us and then sped back into the dusky woods. E gasped, delighted.

E fell asleep in the border line up and then I told R. Hot tears, my voice shaky, but there wasn’t really much to say. R cried too, a little, and then we sat quietly together, moving slowly toward home, a long line of glowing red tail lights in front of us as the darkness grew.

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