“Pregnancy?” I feel like he’s speaking a foreign language. “What are you talking about?”

Goldberg sighs, looking tired. “Nora is six weeks pregnant, Julian. It looks like the morning-after pill didn’t work.”

I stare at him, stunned, and he says, “Listen, I know it’s a lot to take in. Why don’t I leave the two of you to discuss this, and I’ll answer any questions you might have in the morning? For now, the best thing for Nora would be to get some rest. Stress is not good in her condition.”

I nod, still mute with shock, and he swiftly departs, leaving me alone with Nora.

Nora, who’s sitting there like a wax doll, her face nearly as white as the robe she’s wearing.

Hot liquid spills over my hand, burning me, and I realize that I forgot about the tray I’m holding. The pain clears my mind, and I finally process the meaning of Goldberg’s words.

Nora is pregnant.

Not sick. Pregnant.

The icy fear eases, replaced by a new, entirely foreign emotion.

Placing the tray with the half-full cup of tea on the nightstand, I sit down next to my wife and wrap my hands around her small palms. “Nora.” I pull on her hands to get her to face me, and see that she’s still shellshocked, her gaze blank and distant. “Nora, baby, talk to me.”

She blinks, as if coming back to herself, and her hands jerk in my grasp. I release her and watch as she scoots back, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes lock with mine, and we stare at each other in silence as seconds tick by.

“Did you do this?” she finally asks, her voice a strained whisper. “Did you ask Dr. Goldberg to give me a placebo instead of the morning-after pill? Is the new implant in my arm a fake?”

“No.” I don’t bother being outraged at her accusation. If I’d wanted her pregnant, I might’ve considered doing something along those lines, and Nora is smart enough to know that. “No, my pet. This is as much of a shock to me as it is to you.”

She nods, and I know she believes me. There is no reason for me to lie. She’s mine to do with as I please. If I had impregnated her on purpose, I wouldn’t deny it.

“Come here,” I murmur, reaching for her. She’s stiff as I pull her closer, but I ignore her resistance. I need to hold her, to feel her in my arms. Her hair tickles my chin as I pull her onto my lap and inhale deeply, closing my eyes.

Nora is not sick.

She’s carrying my baby.

It seems surreal, unnatural. She’s tiny in my embrace, barely bigger than a child herself. Yet she’s going to be a mother—and I’m going to be a father.

A father, like the man who gave me life and molded me into what I am today.

Unbidden, an old memory comes to me.