My world was sorting, boxes and trash bags. A third to keep, a third for the dumpster, a third for charity donations. With so much going on, I never really caught on that I’d come down with not an STD, but a fetus. I was more tired than usual, sure, but my days were long. My stomach was off. Not horribly so, but I chalked it up to the stress of the move. My boobs hurt, my nips aching so much sometimes I’d scream angrily at my bra and T-shirts for daring to graze them, but I’d gotten breast sensitivity with PMS before, so it didn’t occur to me to worry about it. And the killer? I still got periods. Light ones, but periods all the same, which is why I didn’t figure out something was really “wrong” until I was almost three months pregnant.

Eggs finally did me in.

I loved eggs, ate them all the time. It was a breakfast ritual between Mom and I where she’d get up in the morning, scramble up some eggs, I’d make toast and butter it, and we’d eat together. It continued into the summer, as I took point on packing duty with Mom working all the time. She’d wake me up and we’d chow down as per usual before we went in opposite directions to carry out our days.

Wednesday morning, early. I was tired. So was Mom. Neither one of us were talking as we sipped our coffees, doing how we normally did on a weekday. Mom broke out the eggs, dropped them into the pan and BOOM. The smell hit me. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you pregnant women get extra senses because of Preggo Magic, but they do react to stimuli differently, and in that moment, the smell of eggs became something horrific. It was farts and sadness. It was old garbage and sweaty armpits and every other atrocious stench all rolled into one. I fled the kitchen to toss my cookies into the toilet in the bathroom, wishing to God that all eggs, everywhere, ceased to exist.

Mom followed me, rubbed my back, asked if I was okay.

“No eggs,” I warbled. Which, again, was weird because I’d eaten eggs fine up to that point, but that’s something people should know about pregnancy—your tastes can and do change often and rapidly for no rhyme or reason beyond “hormones.”

“What did you eat?”

I did a mental tally of all the stuff I’d crammed into my maw the night before. Half a tube of Pringles while I was talking to Devi. A bowl of ice cream. Enough Diet Coke to float the Titanic. While it wasn’t the healthiest fare in the world, it wasn’t any different than anything I’d devour any other day of the week.

“Nothing special,” I said, fighting off the gags.