He put his hand on my stomach then looked at me, wide-eyed.

‘Can you feel it?’ I whispered.

‘Yes. It’s like a…a fluttering?’

‘That’s exactly what it feels like!’ I said. ‘Like there’s a little butterfly in here.’

I had had a dream pregnancy. In my first trimester, I had minimal morning sickness, tons of energy, and most of my time was spent floating around in a state of blissed-out joy.

I gave up my beloved caffeine, bought every vitamin and supplement recommended by the many pregnancy blogs I’d taken to reading and made yet another stab at meditation.

Meanwhile Luke bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting and consulted it daily.

‘This week it’s the size of a cranberry.’

‘Tomorrow it’ll be as big as a blueberry. Our little berry!’

Stopping by Mia’s fruit stand at the Farmer’s Market became a thing. Luke would hold up, say, a strawberry, telling anyone who cared to hear that this week our baby was that size. Then, ‘Sorry, Mia. Manhandling your goods, my bad.’

Mia, whom I knew from my meetings, froze every time Luke spoke to her. Sweet and pretty, she reminded me of a cuddly toy—big brown eyes set in a round face framed by short, messy dark hair.

Then Luke would swerve me away from the cheese stall, glaring at any soft cheese that might have been entertaining notions about being purchased by us. ‘Sorry, man,’ he called out to Lionel, the cheesemonger. ‘Rachel’s pregnant! We’ll be back in seven months.’

Raw meat was regarded with the horror normally reserved for nuclear waste and Luke kept coming home with random stuff—fresh ginger for my non-existent nausea; a packet of folic acid, even though I’d already been taking it for two years; a three-kilo bag of mixed dried fruit. ‘Iron and calcium,’ he said, dumping it on the counter.

In my second trimester, my skin suddenly became radiant and my hair grew in great, shiny spurts. But I burst into tears at the drop of a hat. If someone gave me their seat on the train, I cried. If someone didn’t give me their seat and left me standing for the hour-long journey to work, I also cried.

Everything seemed either unbearably beautiful or indescribably appalling.

‘What if I’m a terrible mother?’ I sobbed and sobbed while Luke stroked my hair. ‘I’m such a weak, weak person.’

As we approached the five-month mark, Luke said, ‘Babe, are we having a gender-reveal party? Only Gaz was asking. He says he can do something with fireworks.’

‘Oh my God, no! Gaz would probably blow us all up.’ Gaz destroyed everything that he touched. His nickname was Shiva. ‘Plus, they’re so tacky. Gaz has been living in Queens too long. You must remember, we’re Brooklyn people, baby!’

At our next scan, the radiologist asked, ‘Would you like to know the gender?’