“Dehydration and low blood sugar.” My mother clucked as she pulled the thin hospital blankets up to my chin. “At least no bleeding this go-round. Simon’s pop-in clearly didn’t help.”

No, it hadn’t, especially once he basically accused me of cheating on him. The hypocritical arse.

“When’s the nurse coming back to draw my blood?” I asked. I flicked at the blankets with fretful energy. I wanted to go home, but that wouldn’t happen for many hours yet.

“Not till you’re fully hydrated, love. Another hour or two.”

Mum settled into the chair next to the bed, pulling out a large novel from her purse. She loved the historical fiction works—tomes I’d tried to get her to download onto the e-reader I’d bought her a couple of years ago for her transatlantic flights. She resisted, stating she preferred the physical manifestations.

“Where are Dad and Jeremiah?” I asked before she opened the book.

She glanced over her small reading spectacles, eyeing me with concern.

“Your father thought Jeremiah might prefer to go home now that we know you and the baby are all right. Seventeen weeks along. I can’t believe you didn’t know you were pregnant for the first trimester.”

“We’ve tried for so long, Mum. And my periods haven’t been regular since . . .” I trailed off, hating to think of the two miscarriages I’d struggled through in the past twelve years.

Mum wrapped her hand around mine, stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. “There, now. No reason to fret. The doctor said her heart rate is perfect.”

I leaned back against the pillows. The baby was healthy. I was getting healthy. I had Jeremiah. I could do this. Somehow, I’d pick up the pieces of my life and be okay. Somehow.

Mum picked up her book and began to read. I must have dozed off because the next moment the nurse was checking my pulse. After noting it in the chart, she pulled out a syringe and began to draw blood.

“Is that for the paternity test?” I asked.

Mum made a disgruntled noise behind the book but didn’t bother to look up.

The nurse nodded, watching the syringe. “Yes, NIPP we call it. Non-invasive prenatal paternity. We’ll need the father’s blood to compare it to.”

“Will you call Simon, Mum? Ask him to offer up a sample so that he can be sure?”

“I am sure.” His voice startled me as I turned to see him in the doorway to my room, looking even more tired and wan than he had this morning. If he’d just flown in today, his circadian rhythms must be mess. Not that I cared. Not my problem.

The nurse pulled out the needle and capped the syringe, taping my name to the label.