We had pizza for dinner because it was the only thing she could imagine keeping down. Just the two of us. Out in the city. Brick walls, exposed beams in the ceiling. We sat there and talked nervously and ate a few slices and sipped on water, while two meaty elephants sat heavily on our chests.
Saying it's hard to breathe doesn't begin to cover the emotions.
Seventy-seven weeks of pregnancy. Thirty-eight and a half on top of thirty-eight and a half.
One way or another, this will be over tomorrow.
We drove home in the evening heat. There wasn't much else to say about it, so we talked about other things. We made almost every light.