Daniel and I had wanted a child for years. After two miscarriages, the doctors warned us that another pregnancy could be
dangerous for me. During the past year, we had even stopped discussing it.
I returned home holding the laboratory results.
It was 7:13.
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Daniel was standing by the window. When the clock changed to 7:14, he closed the curtains, went into the kitchen, and returned with the white bowl.
This time, I pushed it aside.
“Did you know?”
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His expression changed immediately.
“Know what?”
“About the pregnancy. My blood. All of this.”
Daniel sat down and closed his eyes.
It turned out that two months earlier, he had found my late mother’s journal. In it, she had written that the women in our family sometimes suffered from hereditary anemia, which could be especially dangerous during the early stages of pregnancy.
When Daniel noticed that I had become pale and was constantly tired, he secretly consulted a doctor.
He hadn’t known about the pregnancy. He had simply been afraid that if he told me about his suspicions, I would remember the babies we had lost and panic.
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