I’m not expecting a baby. The three pregnancy tests, which I unceremoniously tossed into the bathroom trash, confirmed this. Given that I have an IUD securely in place, this revelation shouldn’t be shocking.
However, I woke up yesterday feeling utterly miserable. My stomach was churning and cramping, accompanied by heartburn that seemed to radiate through my chest. On top of that, I’ve been fatigued for weeks.
“You might be pregnant,” my partner, Tom, suggested.
“No way,” I replied. “That’s impossible. I just overindulged on Fiber One bars. I can’t be pregnant right now.”
But as the day progressed, my confidence started to waver. I found myself tearing up during the end of a light-hearted movie about dogs. I settled for lemon tea and toast, contemplating how we would break the news to our kids about giving up our puppy in exchange for a new sibling. My mind buzzed with ideas for announcement posts. I instinctively cradled my belly as my youngest, Liam, jumped onto me. I cuddled him on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, I thought having another child might not be so bad.
Yet, when Tom returned home with a fresh batch of tests, each one displayed a single straight line, confirming my lack of pregnancy. In a way, this was a relief; had the results been positive, it would have thrown our lives into chaos. We simply cannot afford another child right now—it would have been overwhelming.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling of disappointment.
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In summary, I’m not pregnant, despite a whirlwind of emotions suggesting otherwise. My body might be playing tricks on me, but the tests confirmed what I already suspected.