It happened on a Sunday, eleven weeks in, which Priya knew was within the range where this was common and which she also knew, because she had read everything there was to read about it twice over in the past eight months, was a fact that helped less than anyone who had not been through it might expect.The first one, the previous autumn, had been earlier — seven weeks — and had been, in the language the clinic used, "consistent with a chemical pregnancy," a phrase that Priya had turned over for days afterward with the specific dissatisfaction of someone whose professional life was built on the precision of language and who found this particular phrase both technically accurate and almost entirely useless as a description of what had actually happened to her.This one was different. Eleven weeks was long enough that they had let themselves, carefully, begin to believe it. Not announce it — they were still not telling anyone — but believe it privately, in the small ways: Priya had stop
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