It was her fragrance that sparked my curiosity—not because I could pinpoint it, but rather because I could recognize the floral undertones mingling with a hint of vanilla. I could almost taste it. And the hair spray she used? It was fruity.
The next morning, I rummaged through the cabinet beneath the sink for my monthly test—the ones I stock up on at Dollar Tree. I take these tests even though we’re being “careful.”
It was that fragrance that prompted me to open the box this time. On another occasion, it could have been an unusual feeling in my stomach, a distaste for my morning coffee, or even the shifting of the earth beneath me. Having experienced pregnancy five times, I find that everything feels like a symptom if my period is just a few seconds late.
I can be quite silly with these tests. My friends chuckle at my antics, while my husband simply rolls his eyes. The employees at Dollar Tree even cheer when they see me coming. I suppose I should put an end to this habit.
Nonetheless, I open the box and glance at the instructions. Although I could recite them in my sleep, I read them anyway—if I were ever stranded in a Spanish-speaking country, I’d know how to use a pregnancy test but likely wouldn’t be able to order a proper meal… except maybe queso and agua.
Dollar Tree pregnancy tests come with a cup, which feels a bit awkward, and a dropper that makes me feel like I’m conducting a science experiment. In a way, I am.
As I fill the dropper with my urine, I realize I need to hydrate more. I squeeze the liquid onto the test window—the only real Magic Eight Ball that offers insight into what lies ahead.
Ideally, I should place the test on the sink and walk away, but patience is not my strong suit—whether it’s standing in line, boiling water, or waiting for pregnancy test results.
With the test in hand, I observe the fluid traveling through the window, realizing I’m sitting on the toilet, awaiting the verdict on my future. I’ve received some of the best news with my cheeks pressed against the cold porcelain—probably leaving a red mark that resembles a brand.
The liquid flows into the testing area, and I think about how the bathroom could use a good cleaning. The chaos around the toilet indicates that a 7-year-old boy’s aim is akin to a fireman turning on a hose without care. Clorox might be necessary.
Sylvie starts knocking on the door. I’ve only been in here for 47 seconds.
“I’ll be out soon, sweetie!”
“Mommmeeeeee! I need you!”
She probably wants me to change her clothes since she’s been in the same outfit for 15 minutes. Or maybe her doll’s arm is stuck.
“I’ll be right there, okay? Mommy’s in the bathroom.” Not my best response.
Then Chloe chimes in.
“Mommy!”
Both girls are outside the door, and if Noah weren’t at school, he’d likely be asking for a snack.
The test remains in my hand, while I still sit on the seat. A cup of my urine stares back at me from the sink, and my girls keep knocking.
I glance at the test. Just one minute has passed, but now we’re late for a playdate with a new friend. We should be in the car by this moment, but here I am. Our snack bags are on the counter instead of packed. I need to get out of this bathroom.
Then I see it: two bright pink lines.
Two bright pink lines indicate that life is about to change drastically, yet some aspects will remain the same. They remind me that selling so many of our baby clothes at the community yard sale might not have been the best choice. Maybe getting rid of the crib was premature.
Suddenly, it feels as though someone has opened an emergency exit on an airplane, and I can’t catch my breath. I’m gasping for air.
Sylvie is still calling for me.
How did this happen? Two pink lines.
My husband is downstairs, but I can’t find the words to tell him. I’m uncertain when I’ll be able to express this—perhaps in nine months?
We might need to revisit middle school sex ed with its cartoon illustrations to clarify this situation.
Chloe is back.
“I’ll be out in just a second,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true because I’m still grappling with how to process this.
I can’t remain in the bathroom.
I wrap the test in paper and place it back in the box, sliding the box under the sink before closing the cabinet door.
I flush and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but all I see are those two pink lines staring back at me.
The knocking has ceased.
I open the door and call out, “Let’s go! We’re running late!”
Every emotion crashes over me at once, leaving my ears buzzing and my vision fuzzy. Once they’ve all settled, I hope, ultimately… Love prevails.
“Sylvie! Chloe! Time to go!”
It always has.