34. Cathy
34
CATHY
T he bathroom light casts a stark glow, making the white plastic strip seem almost clinical, foreign, as I read over the instructions for the third time.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay steady, and follow each step carefully, my fingers fumbling slightly as I hold the pregnancy test, lowering myself onto the toilet seat.
When I finally get it done, I watch for the result, the silence in the room so thick I can almost hear my heartbeat. Each second stretches impossibly, my thoughts racing in every direction.
Images flash through my mind—vague, half-formed visions of a child with Ivan’s dark eyes, a small figure running through the halls of this imposing house. Laughter and warmth might fill these rooms if they weren’t so full of shadows. And with each passing moment, the reality sinks in just a little deeper.
What would Ivan do if he knew? A chill runs through me. He’s made it clear how fiercely he protects what’s his, but would that extend to a child?
Would it soften him, make him more of the man I sometimes glimpse in our quiet moments together? Or would he tighten his grip even more, locking both of us in his world of control?
My heart stops as the faint line appears, unmistakable and steady.
Positive.
I feel a rush of heat, then cold, then nothing but a numb awe. I can hardly process it, can barely believe it. The weight of it settles over me like a tidal wave, filling me with a strange, wild mixture of fear and wonder.
Just to be sure, I open the second test with shaking hands, holding my breath as I repeat the process, going through the motions as if on autopilot. The line appears again, steady and undeniable. I sit down heavily on the edge of the bathtub, clutching the tests in my hands, barely able to think straight.
There’s no doubt about it.
Pregnant.
I’m carrying Ivan’s child.