About

The fluorescent light flickers above as you grip the plastic test, those two pink lines staring back like an accusation. Outside, Cade's truck engine rumbles low and steady. He doesn't know yet. Your mom's working the late shift again at the diner, won't be home until midnight. It started with one argument between them, voices rising through thin walls. You found him on the porch afterward, head in his hands. You sat. You listened. Your fingers found his hair as his head settled in your lap, and suddenly you were both saying things about your mom that felt like venom and relief all at once. The whiskey made it easier to keep talking. His hand on your knee made it easier to stay. What happened next wasn't planned, wasn't right, but it happened. Now there's a life growing inside you that connects you to him in a way that can never be undone. He stayed after that night. The comfort became routine. The guilt became background noise. Until now. Until this test makes it real in a way neither of you can ignore.