When they found a rarely available empty lot along the river in New Falls, an artsy little town just in commuting distance of New York City, it felt like a sign. It wasn’t cheap—far from it—but it was everything they wanted, with plenty of privacy and space. They’d cashed in a big chunk of Ted’s shares at Foxfield Barnes and paid cash. Five full acres, which seemed impossible to comprehend from their 750-square-foot rental. They always joked that if they lived anywhere besides New York City, they would feel rich, and now they did—or would, after the construction loan was paid off.

The architectural plans for the house, a sleek two-story contemporary with walls of glass to showcase the view from every room, were taped up on a window of the apartment, the perfect angles and proportions backlit by the morning sun. They’d splurged on a top-notch architect and high-end finishes, telling themselves that even though it was a stretch now, it would be worth it in the long run. The house felt like the one thing they had really gotten right, and in the excitement of meeting with architects and visiting kitchen showrooms, it was easy not to think about the baby thing, or at least not to talk about it.

The baby thing. Maja glanced at the bag on the counter and decided she would rather know, either way. Besides, she would have to start walking over to the gallery soon, and she knew from experience it was a mistake to do the test at work, where she might burst into tears if anyone tried to talk to her. She picked up the test and took it into the bathroom.

When she finished, she slid the plastic cap back over the wet tip, a nice hygienic touch that only served to remind her that she wasn’t a mother yet, no need to deal with anything messy or human. She put it on the sink and waited.

The liquid crawled across the plastic screen, darkening the absorbent material as it went. It hit the first line, the control, which turned pink. All this told you was that you had managed to use the test properly; as in you didn’t mess up peeing on a stick. Maja had gotten this part right every time. It was the next part, the second line that confirmed you had managed to create new life, that gave her trouble. She could barely look at it, but she forced herself to check.

There was nothing there. She didn’t need to refer to the instructions. She wasn’t pregnant.