The blood was not heavy.

A thin, barely-there streak on her knickers.

But barely-there was still there, masked during her journey, she supposed, by the sweatiness of the day.

She stared at it staining cotton. The redness choked her, darkness around her throat. Tightening. Suffocating.

Yet, also, deep inside the thumping of her veins, there was a pushing back. It couldn’t be true. Not this time. She’d been so sure. Perhaps this blood was implantation bleeding. She’d read about that – women thought they had their period, but it wasn’t, it was this, and they didn’t realise they were pregnant until months later. She touched her breasts. Her nipples were still sore, and her stomach throbbed, and there’d been that dizziness. It had to be. Veronica thrust the stick hopefully beneath her, forcing herself to relax enough to pee, then wrapped the test in tissue while she waited for the result. One minute. Two. Three to be certain. It was long ago that she’d given up on the tests where you had to squint your eyes to determine the presence, or not, of a blue line – anything could be wished into visibility. Now she bought the digital ones that were firm and forthright; either she was Pregnant or Not Pregnant. She was right or she was wrong. She was a mother, or she wasn’t. Success or failure. The answer would not be ambiguous. Still, she waited a fourth minute more.

Not Pregnant stared insolently out at her.

Not.

Not.

The blood had not lied.

It was, as always, only herself that was lacking.

Veronica did not re-wrap the test to save for George in her bag.

She paused, for a moment. She gave herself just a moment, hunched, eyes closed in front of the bathroom mirror. She allowed one, long, deep breath. Then she tossed the test into the bin, forcing the same flippancy she had employed on purchase. She stuck a sanitary pad into her knickers. She checked her make-up. And she went to class.

All day the children were riled by the heat. They loped about the classroom, groaning every time they were asked to fetch a book or put a note into their bags or listen to the ways in which it was possible to spell the ‘ay’ sound. Though she tried, she had no patience for it and her inability to rally them made her feel even more incapable than usual. Her stomach was throbbing now, a constant reminder of its pronouncement, her legs itched, and all she wanted to do was to take a chilled Chardonnay from the fridge and lay on the sofa letting TV waft her mind into happy oblivion. “Is anybody awake today?” she prodded them, but even Amelia lacked concentration, taunting her with her presence, existing for Sarah, where nothing existed for Veronica. Sarah, who didn’t even spend time with her daughter. Sarah who had been given everything. Veronica found herself glaring at Amelia, though existing was not her fault.