We should be starting to feel safe by now. We have passed the 12 week mark. But we, and in particular beloved, are more afraid than ever.
There's a scene in a Cold War classic by Le Carre. I read it years ago, the detail eludes me. The scene is a short exposed strip of road. At the end of that strip of road is safety. It is so close, the chase is almost over. But as the protagonist starts to run, a finger is squeezing the trigger of a Kalashnikov.
On the cusp of declaring ourselves clear, of making the formal announcement (yes dear readers you are ahead of most of our friends and family), we both feel so prone to losing everything. She is almost distraught with fear, I am helpless and useless beside her. She dreams of miscarriage, waking often.
This week could not go fast enough. I want to run across the last strip of calendar and dive into next week. By next week I know we'll be stronger. Things can always go wrong, but somehow next week seems like it is beyond the reach of the stalking snipers of the 1st trimester.
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