Shelagh can’t sleep as she awaits the results of her pregnancy test. 

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In the dark of their bedroom, Shelagh tried to pray. She recited the familiar words silently, hoping to find the place of serenity that had helped so often in the past. Over and over the words passed through her mind, but the serenity would not come. Instead, she found herself focused on one point in the room: the weight of Patrick’s hand splayed across her belly. His large palm pressed into the soft flesh, heavy and solid. Each night for the last week he had sought that position as he slept.

He was unaware, of course. It didn’t matter how he had fallen asleep; after a quiet evening home with the family, after a late call where he fell into bed exhausted, his body  turned in his sleep  to her and his hand found her softness. By the time he woke each morning, she was gone from their bed.

Shelagh knew. Each night as she lay sleepless, she felt him turn to her, felt him reaching for her, and she knew what he was seeking. Tomorrow they would know, and she might tell him of his night time gesture. She hoped she could.

In the morning he would tease her about the sleepless shadows under her eyes, her distracted attention. All just symptoms of the news he expected to hear tomorrow. Shelagh would smile, return his kiss, and push her food around on her plate.

Her hand gently covered his. She closed her eyes and felt a tear slip down her cheek towards the pillow. Was there a baby resting below their hands? She ached for it to be so, then felt the guilt rise again. She had found the life she was supposed to be living. With Timothy and Patrick, Shelagh had everything she had asked for, and now she was asking for more.

Shelagh began to pray again.

Tomorrow, they would know, and Shelagh prayed that tomorrow night, his hand would find her belly.