I first suspected I was pregnant while we were at Sea World. We were gliding past a horde of penguins on a crowd-moving conveyor belt, watching it snow behind glass. Several different species rocketed through the water together. Some stood on rocks, looking bored. I was doing math in my head.

When we got home from our trip, I walked into the house, went to the bathroom, and took a test. It was positive and I said something akin to “golly!” An hour later I was scurrying asthmatic Tommy to the ER. I kept the news to myself for several days. I had to turn this new development over and over in my mind. You see, I wasn’t entirely happy.

Less than a year ago I gave birth to Beatrix via emergency c-section due to cord prolapse—her life was in immediate danger. My recovery was horrendously painful and hallmarked by complications. My incision became infected, which led to antibiotics, which led to thrush in both of us, which led to the deterioration of our nursing relationship because I literally howled and cried at every feeding. Even after the thrush was finally booted, nursing was never the same.

After I told my husband, we agreed to keep it to ourselves until at least the first ultrasound. I ended up annoucing it on a forum for moms of many and to a few local friends I do a summer Bible study with. Nobody else knew. My symptoms were and still are very sporadic and light. I simply wasn’t confident that anything good was happening inside—and I have the authority and history of eight previous confirmed pregnancies to back up my suspicions. Despite my initial unhappiness and my worries, I had hope. I was allowing myself to see into the future, glimpsing a deep-winter birth.

The baby would smile about the same time the tulips begin to yawn in their underground beds, awakening and arching up and out, but barely.

I liked it. I loved it.

And then I saw nobody where there should have been a somebody.

And just like that, everything swirls together—shuffling penguins and a long airplane ride and two pink lines and an emergency room and restless sleep and a heart racing and blushing and telling and hugging and praying and wondering and worrying and dreaming and fatigue and ketchup craving and fireworks and birthdays and praying and telling and hugging and hoping and dreaming and driving and parking and riding an elevator and sitting and tapping and following and laying and watching a screen.

And then telling. Again.

In media res. The story isn’t over.