Andrew calmly selected a Coldplay CD, turned the volume higher than appropriate, and sank Into his couch.He gave me a gritty gaze. "Okay. Look," he said over the loud music. "I'm really tired of this shit, Tessy. I am really, 'really' sick of it.""So am I," I said, reaching over to turn down his stereo. Andrew held up his hand as if to warn me that interrupting is not allowed. "So we're going to discuss this tonight and then never again, okay?""Fine," I said. " That is all I wanted in the first place.""Okay. When Sandra came here to visit me, she told me that she . . . that she had feelings for Max.""I knew it!" I said, pointing at him."Are you going to listen or not?" Andrew asked as if he's losing his patience.I swallowed hard and nodded."And she had been having those feelings for some time, but not that long a time.""How long?""A few weeks . . . maybe a few months.""A few months?" I shouted.He looked at me angrily, as if he's done with the conversation. "Sorry. Go on.

I woke up to the rays of sunlight that crept into the room and onto my face. And I suddenly felt a little thud coming from a particular side of my belly. Was it my baby that just kicked? Did she know that mommy is sad? There has been other times when I thought I felt her—only to realize that it was likely just indigestion or hunger pangs. But there's no confusing it today—an unmistakable sensation of tiny feet moving inside, churning up against my organs and bones. I put my hand on the spot, right under my rib cage, as I waited to feel my baby girl again. And sure enough, I felt another small but distinct nudge and twitch. This is really crazy, considering that my stomach is now the size of a basketball and that it took the flutter of baby feet for my pregnancy to move beyond theoretical and feel real. I can't believe it—that I have a baby inside of me, an actual little person who is going to be born in a few short months. I am going to be a mother. In a way, I am already. I curl

On my way home, I ducked inside a coffee shop for a short rest, ordered a decaffeinated latte, and hunkered down in a big overstuffed armchair. On the couch next to me sat two women—a blonde and a brunette—who looked about my age. The blonde balanced a baby on one knee as she struggled to eat a brownie with her free hand. Both ladies wore tiny diamonds on their left ring fingers, just as Andrew once told me that the Brits are less ostentatious about engagement rings than Americans. I think that is one of the reasons why Andrew likes London. The Brits' understated quality is the opposite of what he said I am—more or less a shameless showoff.From the corner of my eyes, I studied the women. The blonde has a weak chin but good highlights; the brunette wore gripping aqua velour sweats but held an enviable Prada bag. I know I'm not being shallow for checking out her clothing. I am just being observant, which is a very good virtue. What isn't okay, is drawing conclusions about the women as

This morning, I was prodded by another series of kicks from my baby. Andrew has already left for the day, so I used his computer to type up my résumé and a quick cover letter, which articulately explained that my success in the world of public relations had everything to do with my outgoing personality, and that certainly this quality would skyrocket the success rate of any company I'm employed to.I spell-checked the letter, opting for the British spelling of the words 'colourful' and 'organised'.Then, I showered, dressed, and headed out into the London chill to apply for a job at the nursing home Orla and Meg had told me about. * * ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** I arrived at the nursing home and got blasted by the district and depressing odor of old people and institutional food. I immediately felt a wave of morning sickness. I rummaged my purse, found a mint and drew deep breath through my mouth.I studied two little old ladies in matching floral smocks parked in the lobby. As I watch

Sprawled on Andrew's couch, half-asleep, waiting for Andrew with a pit in my stomach as I listened to a Norah Jones CD. Andrew came back and walked into the sitting room looking over at me with a concerned expression on his face. "What time is it?" I asked."Should be Ten," he said, standing over me. "Have you eaten?""Yes," I said. "You?" He nodded. "Where have you been?" I asked, feeling like a suspicious wife who just found a smear of red lipstick on her husband's starched white shirt. "Writing.""Sure you were," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and playful. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, motioning for me to move over and clear a space for him.I lifted my legs long enough for him to sit and then rested my feet on his thighs. "It means, were you really writing or were you hanging out with Capucine?" I asked in a sing-songy way that kids say, "Andrew and Capucine sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!""I really was writing," he said innocently. "How did you spend your