NINE MONTHS

oOOo Prologue oOOo

Is it normal to hear your biological clock tick at the age of twenty-five?

The first time I remember feeling that way was last year, after my boyfriend and I got back together following a three-year relationship… hiatus. That's what I like to call it. It was a long period of mourning our breakup, trying out new men and realizing that Caleb is the only guy I ever want to be with after all. I remember I was ready to start a family with him long before we even separated. He was my first true love, and I knew at twenty-one that he always would be. But our crazy work schedules started taking a toll on our relationship at some point and drove us apart for a while. But the moment we shared our first kiss in the process of our reconciliation, I knew that it was meant to be forever. We were meant to be together forever… as a family. We quickly became husband and wife after that. Us getting married was something I never dared to imagine when I first got together with Caleb. We both come from broken families, and marriage just hadn't been the right concept for both our parents. So why did we take the plunge anyway?

It's simple. Because that's what you do when you're facing a long prison term for murder. At least, back then I thought I was. However, that is a different story.

But that's when it all started. I wanted to have a family with the man of my dreams… like every woman in love does. And for me, the prospect of losing him got me thinking… and hearing it loud and clear…

Tick tock tick tock…

oOOo The first month oOOo

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes.

Right there.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea-

Aaahhhhhh.

Caleb was touching me in that spot, that certain spot that always drives me crazy, and… and at some point some five minutes later, it must have happened.

I assume.

It was regular, decent Tuesday night sex. Nothing really special. The way it is when you've known each other for eight years and the nights you spent fucking again and again have long – and I mean loooooooong – been replaced by nights you spend actually sleeping.

Somehow I had imagined I would notice it – like making contact with the universe, the primordial mother, the source of life, anything – a twitch in my lower body would have sufficed. Or a kind of strain I usually feel when I'm getting my period. But nope, nothing, nada, nil. I've heard of women who were able to tell when IT happened. Who cannot only tell you the night but also the specific moment IT happened. Who are so in touch with their body and their life that they have a presentiment about IT happening. But those are probably also the kind of women who dance naked around Lake Nockamixon during a full moon, celebrating welcoming their period until they get caught by a ranger or a wild hog… whichever came first.

I am definitely not one of those women.

Yeah.

That's what you get for neglecting your spiritual self for the sake of your cosmetic one.

I'm pregnant.

Expecting.

Knocked up.

Got a bun in the oven.

I'm with child.

I'm in a family way.

You can call it what you want. In any way, it wasn't an accident. Or maybe it was after all and I'm begging you for mitigating circumstances. Every woman will understand. I was twenty-five years and five months old and I was married to Caleb, a software engineer (who's twenty-six and has a butt that even Channing Tatum would envy him for). We had been living together in a loft in Greenwich Village for more than two years. There wasn't much left for us to try out as a couple. We'd done it all, even hiked the Appalachian Trail together. I mean it was natural to take the next step... right?

Tick tock tick tock tick tock...

I had been hearing my biological clock tick for the past couple of months, so loudly that I could barely sleep at nights. At the beginning, I wasn't able to pinpoint all the signs. Instead of fantasizing about my husband's great, yet hairy, sexy ass, I thought of soft, chubby baby butt cheeks. When I held my friend Emily's daughter Lily in my arms, I burst into loud sobs. And when the little girl puked all over my brand new camisole, I didn't dare to bring it in for dry-cleaning for two whole weeks!

In my defense, an article I'd read in the New York Times magazine had also played an important part. It said that women over thirty are far more likely to need medical assistance in conceiving and had to take a ton of hormones in order to become pregnant... like pigs that need to be fattened. And eventually, they would end up getting quintuplets. I didn't want quintuplets. I would have been fairly content with getting just one baby.

And then, there was that incident recently where Caleb didn't come home from work at the usual time because he was stuck in an elevator for a couple of hours while a fire was raging in the building. His cell phone didn't have any service, so I didn't know where he was. I was worried sick, and I remember feeling both frightened and ridiculously sad about the possibility of staying behind lonely again. I thought there was no way that I could go on without having a part of him with me for the rest of my life. That's when I knew for sure that I wanted to have children with him. Soon. Real soon. So, basically… right there that night!

Let's just not dwell on the fact that he had been stuck between first and second floors while the smoke detectors had gone off due to a pizza burning in the oven of the canteen. To me, it had been another life changing event that totally set my biological clock in motion.

Somehow I ended up not telling Caleb about my hormonal state of exception and my sneaking desire to have children. We had discussed the issue elaborately at the start of our relationship — after I'd had the very first orgasm of my life and after I'd taken a tentative drag at my second ever smoke — when I heard myself say to my own horror, "Do you want to have kids some day?"

At sixteen!?

I had no idea how that could have slipped from my lips, for even four-year-old girls know that questions like that at the beginning of a relationship are like a DOA call for every guy out there. Talking about your baby fantasies that soon is worse than admitting to having had an STD before. Nothing leads to a guy catapulting from a sleeping bag like the baby issue.

Caleb had a deafening cough attack and when he was finally able to breathe again, he wheezed, "Um… uhhh... Whoa… Where are you getting this from?"

"Um... uhhh, well...," I managed to say before the unfamiliar air in my lungs forced me to cough it up, which thankfully gave me some time to mull over his counter question. "Just saying," I ended up huffing into his ears in a desperate effort to make it sound as if the two of us were just casually chatting about our favorite smores recipe.

"Uhhh... naturally I'd say I do, yes, but that may be another while. Maybe like... I don't know... twenty or twenty-five years from now. After I've done some more things like maybe getting a real paying job and traveling and...," he cleared his throat meaningfully. "And getting to know you better. That's what I want for now. But if you agree that this... us... here... wasn't just meant for one night only, we might want to consider getting you on the pill. Just to be on the safe side, you know?"

I eagerly nodded my consent, and from there on, Caleb went on to be extra thoughtful. Every single day that we spent together in the years after he asked me if I had taken my pill or he would bring me a glass of water during recess so that I could take it there in school without risking that my mom found out.

So if statistically it takes a year for a woman my age – because hello, twenty-five is almost as old as thirty – to get pregnant, I figured I'd have enough time to warm him up to the idea before his twenty-year deadline was running out. It was only a matter of timing it right. And it wasn't like he'd said he never wanted to have children or that he didn't like them in the first place. I watched the man take care of other people's kids, and it stood to reason that he would be the perfect father one day.

He once babysat my co-worker's five-year old son Russell for me after I'd come down with a fever and was quickly given a restraining order by the parents to not come close to their house for two weeks. Don't blame it on Caleb that little Russell saw dead people everywhere in the months after and had nightmares for days. My husband fell asleep on the couch during Paw Patrol and the boy was quick to switch DVDs, ending up watching The Sixth Sense all the way through until his parents came home from date night later on. I mean he was five years old and had more technical talent than me who cannot even open a DVD box without breaking a nail!

Caleb would be an awesome parent, he just didn't know it yet. His genes matched perfectly with mine if I trusted my nose's instincts. Noses never lie. I fell head over heels in love with Caleb after I'd first smelled his natural scent. And when we first saw each other again after our breakup, he walked past me, and my nose caught a whiff of his aftershave and BOOM, I was back to my old sixteen-year-old self, hopelessly in love with him again, knowing that at that point, it was a long shot because he was dating my best friend then. But well, here we were again, it all worked out for the best and now I got to rest my head in the crook of his neck and smell him and do all the other great stuff with him that he was so, so good at for the rest of my life. But that alone was not how I ended up getting pregnant.

So, silly me, I kind of forgot taking the pill the other day… on purpose… by way of trial... without telling Caleb about it. And unfortunately, that wasn't the end of my conception story either.

Admittingly, I spent my time after our casual Tuesday night sex doing yoga while Caleb was in the shower and getting ready for bedtime. Have you ever tried the lotus pose? In headstand? Because I did! I only wanted to try it out after I'd been watching YouTube videos of a yoga instructor named Nathaniel who performed all sorts of poses with animal names, ending the exercise with his personal masterpiece: inversion with extended arms while his legs were doing splits up in the air.

No need in pointing out that neither was I able to extend a single arm, nor was I anywhere close to get my legs that far down. Plus, the whole thing really wasn't really nice on your eyes if you're naked and looking at a large mirror opposite your bed.

But I did find it awkwardly relaxing to let my upper body dangle over the edge of the bed. It really helped with making cleaning underneath the nightstands and the vanity a priority, too!

I 'd heard that gravity was playing a big part in conceiving. It was even logical as I understood. Maybe nature hadn't noticed that us humans walked on two legs instead of four and so we tend to get up after sex to take a shower or go get a cigarette or a glass of wine. If all women were walking on all fours, the sperm would only have to navigate horizontally. But upwards? Nope, never. Everybody knows how exhausting that can be. I hate climbing, especially in five-inch heels, I prefer using elevators whenever I can. And apparently, so did Caleb's sperm. When I was doing my lotus headstand for beginners by the bed that night, I provided those damn bastards with an elevator, and at least one of his little swimmers used it and even managed to get out on the right floor!

After that night I simply blocked it out and went on with my life. I kept pretending that I was still taking my pill every day when instead, I flushed it down the toilet — feeling like a criminal and the worst wife in the world. But… the genes… the butt… You'd understand if you ever saw it…

I tried talking myself into believing that I was doing the right thing. I mean after all the side effects of taking hormones every day can be a real pain in the ass. Ask men if they were willing to take a pill every day for the rest of their sexually active days. I'm pretty sure they only would do that if the pills made their penis grow by an inch every week.

So the next day, I applied some lipstick and went shopping to make myself feel better. 50 percent off on a new pair of Christian Louboutins. Come on! I almost cried when I saw them in the window. My credit card cried too, I think, and my financial consultant is probably going to send me a letter of complaint later next month. But there is no better cure for a guilty conscience than a new pair of heels. Except maybe two pairs of heels.

And it wasn't like anything had happened, and I swore to myself that I was going to start taking the pill again soon and have a heart-to-heart with Caleb about what he wanted for our future. In the days after, I went out almost every night — sometimes with Caleb, sometimes with one of my friends — and drank about twenty-four Margaritas, three bottles of Merlot and four shots of Tequila. I even bummed a smoke when a girl in the over-crowded ladies' room offered me one while we were all waiting our turn.

My job didn't give me much free time to worry about the after effects of my morning ritual either. I work in fashion, and if you want to make it in the business you have to work, work, work.

My best friend Emily had a party around that time, and everybody who's ever been to one of her birthday parties for girls only knows they're the worst kind. Like boot camp and only the strongest survive. So afterwards, I came home at half past four in the morning feeling like I was dead. All sorts of alcohol had joined my bloodstream, making the world around me gyrate even faster. I don't know how the world does it, I for one tend to get nauseous. So I sat on the toilet, singing "l will survive" at the top of my — raspy — voice when Caleb came in, drowsy. "Hey babe, come on! Let's go to sleep, okay?" He yawned and carefully tried to remove the toothpaste tube from my hand that I had been using as a make-shift microphone.

"No, Idonwantto," I protested with all my might, my tongue feeling extremely heavy.

"Oh, like hell you do. But you have to, and trust me, tomorrow you'll thank me for this."

Caleb slowly pulled me up from the toilet seat while handing me a glass of water which was fizzing from an aspirin that was dispersing inside.

I opened my eyes - and there he was: unshaven and inexplicably good-looking... the most wonderful man in the world and definitely one day… the father of my child. Tears started welling up in my eyes and I quickly put the glass to my mouth.

"You donwannit too but youllbe thangin meee later," I whined into the half-empty glass before I downed the rest.

"I'd be really thankful if you could try and put one foot before the other and come to bed now."

"Can't. I donfeel good. But donyou worry, it's all purrfecly normal… cause I'm pre…-" I didn't get to finish the sentence as a series of hiccups overcame me. And that's when I saw it: there was blood in my panties. Little, maroon blotches sprinkled across the silk material, looking like one of those psych inkblot test pictures my therapist Doctor Sullivan once showed me. But despite its really interesting pattern, there really was only one possible interpretation: not pregnant. "Oh god… oh god… oh godohgodohgod." I stared at my underwear.

Bewildered, Caleb stared at the agitated mess of a woman before him.

"… pretty sure I got my period."

"Figures."

And then I puked all over his favorite sleep shirt.

Somehow Caleb managed to get us both up cleaned up and ready for bed. I love him so much. He has such obvious father qualities.

oOOo

I had an obvious hangover the next morning. I stuffed myself with a tampon the size of a cucumber. Usually, during the first twenty-four hours of my period, I bleed like crazy, so I need the cotton cucumber or I'm stuck with wearing black clothes only and making a run for the ladies' room every half hour. It's so nasty.

All prepped for a little shopping trip, I left our apartment and went to buy a new sexy muscle shirt for Caleb before I headed to work. I was sitting at my desk all morning, my mind constantly wandering off to that one thought.

Not pregnant. Not pregnant. Not pregnant.

Around noon, my mood had significantly worsened, and it was all crystal clear: I was most likely infertile. It had to be the only logical explanation. All those years of fumbling around with a condom when things were getting hot and heavy between Caleb and me… all those times we were scared as shit after we'd forgotten about birth control because things had gotten too hot and too heavy to interrupt in time… all those times I was secretly worried sick because I had actually forgotten to take the pill… I was surprised I hadn't gotten any issues with high blood pressure yet. Also, with all the money we could have saved on birth control… Man, I would have been able to afford that sexy PRADA dress… And not the one from the designer outlet store in New Jersey… the real deal from their store on Fifth Avenue!

At 2 pm, I finished my lunch break feeling like a hippopotamus. I had eaten way too many chicken wings with fries, but a possible weight gain was the last thing on my mind. Let's face it: that was probably the only way I would ever get the look of a pregnant woman. I was convinced that I was severely ill. Cervical cancer, ovarian cancer, bladder cancer… I was sure I had them all. I would never be able to have any children. Never! Over and done with. Before I turned thirty! I would probably end up looking like a female on the outside, but my insides would soon have to be removed.

At 6 pm, I closed my laptop feeling tremendously happy again. I was not pregnant! How awesome was that? My friend Spencer was planning on going to an after work special at a club in SoHo and now I was totally free to join her and have some fun. We'd have some drinks, eat sushi and inhale the thick, musky evaporations of a couple of hundred strangers... Who would want to be pregnant anyway? Ruin their lives with twenty inches of whining and pooping offspring? Refrain from going out, from drinking alcohol, from sleeping in, from having wild and spontaneous sex, from weekend getaways to Long Island, from everything that was fun? Was I completely insane?

I was dead set on going straight back on the pill again, starting tomorrow morning. Whew, what a fluke! Not pregnant. I could go on with my life and my marriage with a clean conscience.

By the time we arrived at the night club, I knew that something wasn't right. During the cab ride there I'd remembered that I hadn't changed my tampon all day. I hadn't felt the urge to do so as I hadn't noticed any signs of leaking. Instead of going inside and ordering my first drink of the evening, I made a beeline for the ladies' room – though that name is quite a euphemism because that was definitely no lady who messed up every single stall in there – in order to check the situation "down there". I don't want to go into detail too much, but one minute later, I held the tampon in my hands by its string… and it looked nearly unused.

This was very suspicious.

That moment, Spencer came in and knocked on the door of the stall. "Hanna, are you alright? You've been away for almost twenty minutes. We're all waiting for you."

I muttered something about a run in my stocking and tossed the tampon into the bin in the corner while listening to the clattering of Spencer's heels as she made her way out. Then I sat down on the toilet seat, waiting for something to happen. It didn't take long before there was another knock. "Han? Do you need some nail polish for your stocking? I can help you out," Aria yelled to drown out the thumping beat of the music that was playing on the dancefloor.

"No, thanks. I'm good," I told her quickly and flushed the toilet, just for appearance's sake. Then I opened the door and smiled at her weakly. When I'd finished freshening up, Aria linked arms with me and lead me out to the rest of the group that was waiting in a darkened corner of the night club. Everyone had their drinks in their hands and they had even ordered one for me. I took the glass, unable to tell what was inside. But the smell was putrid. I pretended sipping at what seemed like a glass of solvent to me and tried to engage myself in some shallow party talk. But I wasn't really paying attention to what anyone else was saying. In between sips, I went to the ladies' room about ninety-two times, checking if I had gotten my period at last. Spencer and Aria kept giving me looks, but I didn't care.

Something was off. Something was in fact very, very off.

Upon my ninety-fifth visit to the ladies' room a guy who was leaning against a condom dispenser and wearing thick black sunglasses came on to me. "Do you want some?"

"Do I want what?"

"Anything."

"What?"

"Come on, drop the innocent act."

"What innocent act?"

"Girl, I got it all right here. And if I ain't got it, I can get it for you," he hissed through gritted teeth and snapped his fingers. "Like that."

I stared at the stranger. "l don't need anything. Nothing. And I don't want anything, especially from you."

"Oh please, babe, don't pretend you don't care. I know you're going through cold turkey. I've been watching you all night, going in and out, in and out, and in again. Makes me nervous, you know?"

"l... uhh... I'm not going through cold turkey, I'm just... I mean I checked... I just had to... you know..."

What was wrong with me? Here I was, trying to explain my period problem to a complete stranger, a drug dealer of all people! And while I stammered and blushed, the guy started smiling and even pulled his sunglasses down.

"Bladder infection! Girl, why didn't you say so right away?" He confidentially put his giant arm around my shoulder. "I'm in the know. My girlfriend has this shit about once every month. If you ask me, it ain't no wonder with what you ladies are wearing these days. You call that a skirt? It's shorter than the duct tape that that bastard plainclothesman used last week to conduct me away." His lewd gaze traveled downward to my legs. I had no idea what he meant. My skirt was almost all the way down to my knees, so basically floor-length.

"Have you ever heard of bearberry leaves? My girlfriend uses them to make tea, and it always seems to help her. Just pour them with boiling water, wait for ten minutes and voilà. Works better than penicillin. My girl swears by bearberry leaf tea. Says it tastes like shit, but hey, it's medicine. It's supposed to taste bad, right?"

I listened as he rambled on, feeling another soothing dose of vodka arrive in my brain. "Okay."

"I just got a fresh badge for her from my herbal guru. It's in my car outside. I can give you some of that."

"l don't think I need any...

"It's for free. Scout's honor!"

With the vodka in my system, slowing down my thought process, I stood there weighing my options. I mean I did tend to get bladder infections about twice a year. I should take precautions. That's just good thinking. In hindsight, I should have known that this guy has never even seen a boy scout in his life, not to mention he's been one himself. But the alcohol made me set one foot before the other, venturing forth with a shady stranger wearing sunglasses in a dark night club.

So I found myself waiting outside in the alley behind the club as the guy — "Call me Walter! That's what all my clients call me" — rummaged in the back of his rusty Volkswagen. When he turned around again, he held up a small plastic bag.

"Here, this should last you at least two days."

I took the bag from him and warily ogled its weird brownish, crumbly contents.

And as far as I can remember that was when the blinding headlights of a police car flared up next to us.

oOOo

At the police station, no one had ever heard of bearberry leaves before. But they were sure they had to be some form of drug, even if they didn't know how they worked. I had to answer an endless array of preposterous questions. It didn't impress them at all that I've had my fair share of legal connections during the course of my entire youth and that I knew plenty of people who could bail me out and represent me in court. I also knew that I was entitled to make a phone call. But damn, Caleb didn't answer the phone! He was probably in the middle of one of those idiotic Fortnite group battles where they didn't even allow anyone to take a leak before the enemy was killed.

Some time later, a drowsy doctor came in and made me pee in a cup. That's how they knew that neither was I having a bladder infection nor a drug problem.

What in the world did I want to do with bearberry leaves in the middle of the night? And why did I accept them from a well-known New York drug dealer?

I was just about to come up with a good answer when Caleb stormed into the police station in order to pick me up. At 3am, he had finally listened to the voice-mail I had left for him.

Walter had to stay a bit longer. They had found a significant amount of other, not-that-legal herbal products in his car. I scribbled down the phone number of Spencer's law office on a piece of paper and gave it to him before I stepped out into freedom again.

Of course, Caleb demanded an explanation. I didn't know what to say so I just remained silent during the cab ride home. In return, he just kept shaking his head scoffing until we pulled up in front of our apartment block. After he'd paid our cab fee, he started talking to me again in a more mellow voice. He asked me if I was having any problems that I hadn't shared with him yet. He also suggested we go to couple's therapy together.

Unfortunately, Caleb didn't believe me when I told him I was having trouble urinating. It wasn't before I told him that Crazy Walter had forced me at gunpoint to come outside to the car with him so he could hire me as his mule for Southeast Asia that Caleb was content. Unfortunately, he wants to sue Walter now for assaulting me, so I have yet to come up with a good story to prevent that. But needless to say, I was pretty relieved when I fell asleep in Caleb's arms that night.

On the next day at noon, I jerked from my slumber. Caleb had gotten up long before me and gone to work even though it was Saturday. My luck is that I have a boss who's a family man with priorities. I usually work almost twelve hours a day for him, Monday through Friday, but weekends are like the Holy Grail for him; no one is allowed to make any appointments on the weekend because that's when he's in his bachelor pad in Montauk, just enjoying life.

I am grateful for a boss with such straight priorities, although I do feel like I should tell his wife why he doesn't spend weekends at home in Brooklyn with her and their three kids anyway…

The first ten seconds after I'd woken up were great. The sun was shining in through the blinds and I lay in bed, thinking about all the things I could do that day. Go shopping? Drive to City Island? Call Aria in London? Visit my mom in Rosewood? Check the bed for blood traces?

Suddenly, I was up, ransacking the sheets for evidence. I slept naked last night, so there had to be some… signs.

But there weren't any. The sheets were as crisp as before. Was I slowly going nuts? I jumped off the bed and checked our hamper in the bathroom, and there they were: my worn-out panties with two tiny speckles of blood. I hadn't simply imagined things. The proof was right there. I was feeling dizzy and kind of in need of a cigarette… or a Xanax.

I walked to the kitchen, looking for my phone so that I could check my calendar. There was a half-emptied glass of red wine on our couch table that Caleb must have left there before he'd gone to pick me up from the police station. Perfect! I grabbed it and downed the warm liquid in order to sedate myself. Everything was alright. After all, periods were likely to be late, especially with all the stress I was experiencing at work with getting my job done on time and helping my boss lead a double life.

Or maybe I was some sort of genetic wonder woman, and this was my menopause announcing its arrival. Oh boy! When was that due again?

I concluded I was a little low on blood sugar, so I quickly got dressed and decided to leave our apartment to buy a large mocha and a donut for lunch at the coffee shop by the corner.

For some reason, I ended up walking past the coffee shop and strolling to the pharmacy two blocks farther down the street. And to my surprise, I found myself inside and waiting in line ten seconds after. When a bunch of grey-haired men had paid for their meds, the pharmacist started tending to an older woman and I was supposed to be next. As I waited my turn, the pile of pillboxes on the counter grew, but the lady still kept asking for more. Pharmacies for old people were probably what Gucci was for me. Once you start shopping there's no stopping you… unless your credit card gets declined at the checkout.

"And then I need those liver drops. They always work so well after I had fried food, but my doctor won't give me the prescription anymore," I heard her ramble, causing the pharmacist to go to the back and open yet another series of drawers. "… the cardiovascular agents, yes. Thank you. And have you packed up the tonic for my veins already? Every time the weather shifts, there's this terrible draft in my legs…"

The young man behind the counter gradually seemed to become happier during the fifteen minutes I spent waiting for the old lady to finish her order. My stomach was growling and my blood sugar was dangerously close to ceasing to exist; my brain was slowly switching to half-sleep.

"… and I think that's it. Oh wait, I forgot about my headaches. So I still need my Tylenol… yes, the fifties pack please… oh and yes, a pregnancy test."

My doze mode ended abruptly. Did she just say pregnancy test? I stared at the woman's back. She had a visible hump and very white hair, the natural version, not the kind of white that girls who are obsessed with Japanese manga literature dyed their hair in. She had to be at least seventy years old!

With no hesitation whatsoever, the pharmacist went to get a pregnancy test and put it in a large plastic bag along with the rest of the lady's purchase. Then she paid – cash!? – and left with a happy smile.

I pondered whether I had traveled in time to a future that offered women of all ages to become pregnant or whether some medical sensation in hormone therapy had taken place and I had missed it despite the fact that I always read my copy of Vanity Fair during lunch hour. But then the pharmacist turned around to me and said, "Hello! How can I help you?" His smile had disappeared. Apparently, I didn't look as needy in the medical department. However, he had noticed the way I was staring after his recent customer. "She'd been wanting to have children for a very long time and it just… never happened," he whispered as I approached the counter. "Sometimes the unfulfilled desire to have kids produces strange effects. That lady comes by once every month, demanding for a pregnancy test. She's one of our most loyal customers, but it's really sad, isn't it? Sometimes, her husband even comes by when she's too sick to leave her apartment." He pulled back and shrugged meaningfully. And I just stood there, dumbstruck.

oOOo

Five minutes later, I was back outside on the sidewalk, staring at multiple boxes of Trojans condoms I was holding in my hand. Believe me, I don't get it either! I swear I tried to say, "I would like to buy a pregnancy test, too," but somehow the words coming from my lips didn't coincide. I was still in shock.

Suddenly, I had that vision of myself that I would be spending the next fifty-ish years buying pregnancy tests every week as naturally as bread and butter.

I did have to admit the pharmacy guy knew an awful lot about all the different varieties of condoms. Plus, he really knew how to sell well; I had just spent forty bucks on birth control that I don't intend on using. Maybe I could donate the boxes to my old high school in Rosewood. The kids there really do seem to need them more than me. If Caleb finds them at home, I could tell him that that's the charity I chose to give to this year. Although, maybe it would be better if he didn't. Better not lose that last smidgeon of my credibility right after he sort of bailed me out of jail for drug dealing.

So, I started walking on and tried giving the condoms to a homeless guy on the street. But he just looked at me with bewilderment and threw the boxes back at me, slurring, "I fucking hate women!" I shoved the boxes into my handbag and hurried to turn the corner.

It took me two more attempts and a subway ride to Midtown before I had finally raised enough courage to buy a pregnancy test and actually take it home with me without tossing it in a dumpster.

Somehow, it was already 4pm by the time I walked back into our apartment. Or rather limped… Breaking in my new Louboutins on my quest to buy a mocha and a donut hadn't been the smartest idea! On my way home, I quickly snuck in at my favorite coffee shop where Rodrigo handed me "my usual" without further ado, thereby enabling me to skip the line and thus sparing me some painful minutes with blisters on my feet. Gotta love that Mexican barista!

oOOo

"You either test in your urine stream or collect a sample of your urine in a clean, dry container. Dip the absorbent tip into the urine pointing downwards for at least 5 seconds. Place the testing stick on a clean, level surface with the result window facing up. Wait 5 minutes. Changes that appear after the stated amount of time will not represent the correct result." I religiously studied the instructions while eating my donut. I was supposed to pee in a container? What kind of container? Reusable plastic cup or my favorite coffee mug for good luck? A shot glass maybe? And how much pee did I need?

I opened our kitchen cabinets and eventually found the ugliest container I could imagine: a creamer with golden ornaments that Caleb had once gotten for his birthday from his aunt Phyllis. I never liked Phyllis or any of the presents she kept sending us. But this one now seemingly got what it deserved.

There are few key moments in a woman's life. Like the first time you get your period, the first time you have sex, the first time you buy a pair of shoes that cost way more than your credit card limit…

Or the first time you're secretly taking a pregnancy test!

I stared at the display window reminiscing about my childhood and feeling confident that my children would surely never have to go through the pain and trouble that I experienced. And then a thin vertical line appeared.

Holy cow! Not pregnant! Not pregnant! Whew, I hadn't betrayed Caleb after all. I could just talk to him about wanting to have kids and maybe he could actually be game.

I jumped to my feet and started dancing around our bathroom, accidentally dropping the creamer in the lavatory. To my dismay, it lay there, unscathed.

I wasn't pregnant. Of course! It was just my period being late a few days. I had become such a hysteric laughing stock. As I stopped my dance of joy for a moment, I suddenly realized something. I was not pregnant. Fuck! That meant I was going to have to go through the exact same situation again next month.

Nah, well. It wasn't like trying to get pregnant was the nastiest pastime in the world. Am I right?

I grabbed the test stick and wrapped it in toilet paper before dumping it into the trash and covering it with the empty tampon box. Just in case. Hah! Then I strolled into our living room. It was time for some chocolate!

oOOo

With two Mars bars in my hand I slouched down on the couch and turned on our TV. Then I started browsing through the Netflix chick flick section. Wait a second! Wasn't there an infinitesimal blue line right across the vertical line in the display window?

Hmm… I shrugged it off.

I made it through the first two minutes of The Notebook before I leaped to my feet and ran back to the trash can to recover my hidden treasure. Yup, there it was. A teeny-tiny-almost-invisible second line that was now forming a cross with the first one.

Yeah, okay. That meant nothing. Nothing at all.

I was nervous and needed to pee again. When I came back into the room, the new, horizontal line had gotten visibly thicker. I quickly grabbed the test and put on my running shoes. It took me thirty seconds to get to the pharmacy where I immediately regretted my decision. Still panting like crazy, I had spotted the same salesman behind the counter that had sold me a year's supply of condoms a few hours previously. But it was too late. He had already made eye contact and started grinning wolfishly.

"Hey there! Already in need of replenishment?"

"No, ehm….. uuhhh…. I'd rather buy a pregnancy test. Actually, all the different brands you're carrying."

The guy stared at me.

"Please?"

"Pregnancy tests?"

"Yup. And could you hurry up? I have to get going."

"Well, that was quick." Wordlessly, he turned around and shook his head as he went to retrieve the objects of my desire. He returned eventually carrying twelve boxes in various sizes and colors. After he had swiped my credit card, he handed me a free brochure: "The first time – sex ed for dummies" and personally chaperoned me to the exit.

oOOo

Another blue cross, a pink cross, a red circle, two parallel lines, several displays that read "pregnant" later, I accepted the relatively likely truth.

I was pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

PREGNANT!

I continued dancing a jig and ended up making havoc of our bathroom. Aunt Phyllis' creamer plunged to the tiled floor and shattered into pieces… which only made me raise my arms into the air in triumph.

And then my brain started functioning properly again. I slowly sank down on the cold tiles and thought about the world we were living in… the dangers of living in Manhattan, the likelihood of another war in the Middle East and me… having lied to my own husband.

How could this happen? To me of all people?

… to be continued …

Hello and welcome to my new story. I've always wanted to write a story about crazy Hanna because let's face it, there was quite the potential but PLL wasn't meant to be a sitcom. I hope that I can take you on a fun ride through nine months of exceptional state in our favorite couple's life.

XO, Zip