Every story goes on, doesn't it?

It was the thirtieth of January. I know this exactly because I had just one day left in which to move before incurring the expense of another month's rent, and therefore was traveling from my family home back to our home to empty it of the last residues of our short life there together, to clean, and to return our keys. Simple matters, although sad ones too. When I felt the baby move.

I know that feeling. I understand it is different for every woman but still my experiences of that have made it impossible for me to comprehend how anyone might continue long unaware of a pregnancy. For me it is unmistakable. Even in the following week of my desire for denial, every time I felt it I knew.

Twice I've been pregnant and twice I've bungled the discovery of it a bit such that it was delayed. In Egypt, just pregnant with Ziad, I was sick already, the early suspicions test read negative, and private health matters disrupted the ease of the simplest way to know. In America, just pregnant with this unborn child, my husband was sick already, the early test read negative, and private health matters again interfered. In Egypt knowing took a desperate retest in the search for answers to nearly two month's worth of nausea. In America knowing took the first movements tangible to me, now three or up to even four months onward.

Insha'allah there will be a surprise summer child, something beautiful and bittersweet.

And I'm only sorry that my husband didn't know.
He'd have been so happy to know.