We weren’t planning to have a baby. I mean, maybe one day, eventually. Even though we have only been in a serious relationship for about six months (seven months? She’s better at remembering these things—my fatal flaw is not paying too much attention to minor details like monumental dates), we have been friends since sophomore year in high school. We know each other well enough to know, without having a big, formal discussion about it, that both of us want children and a family one day.

One day. Not yet.

And yet, she left it on the bathroom counter top: she must have wanted me to see it. A small, rectangular white stick with two lines. They aren’t really pink like they are in the Hulu commercials. They are more of a deep violet. And there are two of them. The Hulu commercials may have been wrong about the shade of the pink lines, but they weren’t wrong about the number. Two lines means she’s pregnant.

Oh shit. I’m going to be a dad.

My fight or flight kicks into motion, and as per usual for me, my instincts choose fight. I will fight past my personal fears to comfort the woman with whom I have chosen to share my heart and my life.

I go to open the door to the bedroom, but it’s locked. I hear sniffling from the other side of the door. I want to wipe away her tears and let her know that I will be by her side every step of the way. This will be our journey.

“Hey baby. I’m going to come inside, okay?”

“Please don’t!” she yells from the other side of the door. She’s not angry, but she is a bit frantic.

I don’t mean to disrespect her wishes, I won’t stay longer than she wants me, and I will give her space. I just need her to know that I am here for her before I leave her alone to process everything.

I use my fingernails on each pointer finger to turn the lock—we don’t have the best security system, but I supposed a burglar or serial killer wouldn’t know the fingernail trick to our locks—and enter the room we have been unofficially sharing for the past three months.

She’s laying in bed, sniffling, looking as if she has been run over by a truck. And yet, she’s beautiful. She’s already glowing.

I kneel beside the bed, take her face in my hands, and kiss her long and hard.

“I saw the test. I’ve got you, baby. We got this.”

She looks confused and startled before realization eclipses her face.

“Maybe you didn’t mean to leave it out, but I saw it, and I want you to know that I’m here for this journey with you. You are going to be the most beautiful mother”.

She coughs, and I rub her back. She takes longer than I would expect to recover from this coughing fit, but maybe this is normal in early pregnancy? I’ll have to Google it. Finally she collects herself and looks up at me.

“Honey, that wasn’t a positive pregnancy test.”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. “There were two pink lines. Well, more like a deep violet, unlike the Hulu commercials depict, but—“

“It was a positive Covid test. I have Covid.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Well, fuck.