‘That’s all it is, isn’t it, Anna? Hormones.’ His eyes darken as he studies me. ‘Everything’s been better since Alircia, hasn’t it? Or since this little one?’ He gently pats my tummy. I begin to cry again, shifting myself up to sitting so I can reach a tissue and mop up my tears.

‘I’ll go and make you a tea.’ He swings his legs out of bed.

‘No.’ I grasp his wrist, not wanting him to leave me, however momentarily. I remember what Mum wished she’d said to Dad. ‘Adam, I… I would cope okay without you, you know. I’d be okay on my own.’

He turns and studies me. I can’t remember the last time we properly made eye contact; not fleeting glances at each other while we talked about the mundane, but properly drank each other in. In this moment I feel so connected to him, but when he speaks his tone is clipped and I realize I have inadvertently upset him.

‘I know we’ve had a tough few years and the pregnancy isn’t a sticking plaster; we have to work at healing the wound but—’

‘Christ.’ I cut him off. ‘Where did you get that analogy from? The book?’ Automatically I fall into the defensive. Why does he take everything the wrong way?

‘So what if I’ve been reading up? Some of us want our family to work.’

‘I want our family to work!’ I’m crying again. I can’t believe we’re bickering.

‘So what’s all this “I’ll be okay on my own” bollocks?’

‘I just… I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that if anything happened to you… I wouldn’t want you to worry.’

‘Ah. This is antenatal anxiety—’

‘I love that you’ve researched all of this. Really. I’m sorry.’ I take his hand. I don’t know how much longer we have and I don’t want to waste a second.

‘Don’t be. It’s really common. Let me go and make a drink and we’ll have a cuddle.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘It’s okay. I remember you’re off caffeine. I picked up some more chamomile on the way home.’ He unpeels my fingers and I am left alone as his footfall thuds down the stairs. I’m terrified I might never see him again. While I blow my nose, I scan the room. In the corner, the chair heaped with a pile of Adam’s T-shirts. His red Coca-Cola one. His faded brown Oasis tour T-shirt. The sight of my jewellery box causes my fingers to flutter to my neck. I’m wearing my star pendant. The one I’d packed away when Adam and I started going through a bad patch. When I was unable to conceive. I trace the curve of my belly with my fingertips.

I’m pregnant.