Winona had always carried a fierce streak of individualism. For as long as I'd known her, she believed women shouldn't be chained to the kitchen.
The kitchen was her forbidden zone.
Once, when I was burning up with a fever and too weak to move, I asked her to mix me a packet of fever reducer. She refused without a second thought.
"I just got my nails done. You think I'm stepping foot in that grimy little room?"
My temperature spiked to a hundred and four that night. I drifted in and out of consciousness until the cleaning lady found me the next morning.
And yet this same woman—who had never so much as boiled water—had cast aside every one of those convictions for the man she loved.
Mid-thought, the color drained from Winona's face. She clapped a hand over her mouth and lurched to her feet.
Morning sickness again.
Austin was at her side in an instant, steadying her with one arm while his free hand dug into his pocket and produced a plastic bag. The motion was practiced, automatic—he'd clearly done this many times before.
He braced her shoulders and let her lean her full weight against him.
"Sorry about this. We need the restroom."
After they left, I finally let out the breath I'd been holding and opened my chat window with Winona.
Our last exchange was from two days ago, when I'd told her I had a surprise for her.
At this rate, that surprise was about to become a shock.
I was about to close the app when a new message popped up in my pinned conversation.
The certificate is real, but I found records showing she purchased a fake marriage certificate online a few months ago.
I closed my eyes. The picture was complete.
I'd barely finished typing my reply when someone knocked on the door.
"Doctor, we're back."
The two of them settled into the chairs across from me again, leaning into each other like it was second nature.
Austin tucked a strand of hair behind Winona's ear, then smoothed the collar of her blouse. As the fabric shifted, a fresh red hickey bloomed into view on her neck.
My brow furrowed. I kept my voice level.
"Has no one told you? The first trimester is high-risk. No intercourse."
A rosy blush crept up Winona's cheeks. She swatted Austin's arm twice, her voice dripping with playful reproach.
"This is your fault."
"Couldn't even wait until the three months were up. Now I'm embarrassed in front of the doctor."
A wave of nausea surged through my stomach, thick and violent, climbing all the way to the back of my throat.
Winona asked me a few more questions about prenatal care, then pulled out her phone and typed every answer into her notes app.
I caught a glimpse of the note's title: Pregnancy Guide for Austin & Me.
When she swiped back to the main screen, I saw more entries. Austin's Food Allergies & Restrictions. Austin's Exercise Schedule...
I looked away. Something cold settled in my chest.
Four years. I'd known her for four years, and she had never once kept records like that for me.
Last month, I'd swapped shifts with three different colleagues just to fly out and see her. After thirty-six straight hours on duty, I'd dragged myself onto that plane.
The moment I landed, I called her. She didn't pick up.
I kept calling. Again and again, until finally the line stopped going to voicemail.
But when I told her I was already in a cab on my way to her place, Winona's voice shot up an octave.
"Don't come right now!"
I sat in the back seat, bewildered. I'd told her my schedule a week in advance. We'd picked the date together.
She'd agreed without hesitation and promised to meet me at the airport herself.
But on the phone, Winona stammered and fumbled for words.
"I... I forgot about it..."
