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he's home. she can hear him in the other room. but, she doesn't go out to greet him, not to kiss him, not to ask how his day was. she's waiting.
it's one of those difficult moments. she wishes it wouldn't take so long. it's really not that long, but, in her mind, it's taking forever.
she's sitting on the closed toilet lid, waiting, wondering. how do i want this to go, she asks herself. she's not sure. on the one hand, there's all the possibilities, a life of endless joy, fulfillment. on the other, there's all that responsibility, all that hell. of course, she has to ask herself which option is which. she can't seem to answer that question either.
he calls to her. just a minute, she tells him.
he doesn't know what she's doing. and, depending on how things turn out, maybe she won't even tell him, not ever. she realizes that she might not have a choice in the matter. he's her husband. there are things she can't exactly keep from him.
again, she asks herself how she wants this to go. no answer.
she leans forward, checks for results. none yet. she sits back and waits a few seconds longer then checks again. nothing yet.
he asks her what's taking so long. she ignores him, leans forward and grabs the home pregnancy test, looks closely at it, watches as the results materialize.
she's not sue if she wants to smile or frown, scream or laugh, dance or cry. she's not sure if she wants to let her husband know. she's not sure if she likes what she sees. she's not sure if she even trust it. she wants a second opinion.