Two pink lines.That's all it took to change everything, for about eleven minutes.I stood in the bathroom of our brownstone with the test shaking in my hand, and I laughed. An actual, out-loud, hand-over-my-mouth laugh, the kind you can't stop once it starts. Two years. Two years of charts and thermometers and appointments that ended with doctors telling us to *just relax, it'll happen.*It happened.I didn't bother changing out of my work clothes. I didn't grab my coat. I just ran.New York in October smells like rain on concrete and roasted chestnuts from the cart on the corner, and I barely noticed any of it, because all I could think was *Max, Max, Max.* I pictured his face. I pictured him picking me up and spinning me the way he used to, before the promotion, before the late nights, before I started falling asleep alone more often than not.I took the brownstone steps two at a time.My hand was still shaking when I pushed through the front door, and I heard voices upstairs, Max
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