Nausea or fatigue, I don’t know which I will pick. Right now, I am tired of being tired from doing nothing all day. Pregnancy is a lot of work. Brandon is acting suspicious, my advisor is giving me hell, my shirts are tighter, jeans barely fit. Everything is against me.

Taking the stairs two at a time in a yoga pant pulled over my football-sized bump, I step into the kitchen and head straight for the fridge, the bottle of Nutella hidden behind an egg box. Sunlight baths the top of the island in a golden glow, I dip my hand into the chill chocolate goodness, scooping it into my mouth. Brandon will have a heart attack if he sees me right now with chocolate staining the corners of my lips but that can never equal the headache from my overthinking due to his attitude. He can’t even act normal.

He had better not be cheating on me or I will cut off his balls and feed it to him. He can’t cheat. He won’t.

With the stress of handling an advisor who is on my neck about redoing the second chapter of my thesis, I cannot deal with a cheating scandal. I can’t even think straight without constant migraines. Rubbing a hand over my belly, I picture myself giving my girl a long lecture when she disobeys me. She will never hear the end of this pregnancy.

She? I laugh. We haven’t checked the gender, I am curious, Brandon is too but we want it to be a surprise. I want a girl, he wants a boy. But I know it will be a girl, a mother knows best, I think. If it were a boy, I would have felt his movements long ago. Nothing up till now because girls are little angels who don’t roll around in their mother’s bellies.

The bag of crisps draws my attention to the task at hand, I place the jar of Nutella on my bump after spreading some on a crunchy piece. I moan my satisfaction when the piece disappears into my mouth, bobbing my head. The first time I asked Brandon to join me in this delicacy, he blanched. I can never understand his disgust, it’s almost the same thing as eating toast and Nutella, people eat that right? Yeah, they do. I am normal.

“You eat too much,” a voice says behind me. I flinch and the jar crashes to the floor. The arms that wrap around me stops me from cleaning the mess, I inhale his scent. “Wifey.”

Brandon is home. My husband is home.

The excitement dies when I remember his words, I frown and push the second bag of crisps away with a mild look of disgust. I didn’t realise I was on the second bag until he spoke, if he hadn’t arrived this moment, I might have gotten started on the third. It is his fault, he left to work without me. I have nothing else to do other than eat, eat, eat, think.

He twirls my chair, I scan his face. His hair is ruffled, eyes tired and I fold my arms across my chest. “I eat too much,” I say and sweep a hand over my body. “So, I’m fat?”
Brandon freezes, he must have realised how much of a bad joke that was and offers me a contrite smile. I am used to his expensive jokes but today, I am not up for it. He has been out there all morning and the first thing he says to me on his return is that. I make to turn away from him, the floor needs cleaning but he places a hand on each side of me.

“I missed you.” Pulling me flush to him, well, as much as my bump allows, he pecks me. I refuse to relax, he steps back to inspect my face, one hand holding mine. “Of course not, you are not fat, baby. I didn’t mean it like that.” A smile springs to my lips, he called me baby. He pushes my shirt up to caress my belly, one kiss on my bump and my resolve weakens. “You are perfect.” His tongue runs over his upper lip, I lick mine. “Forgive me?”

Bunching my shirt below my breasts, I place my hands on his waist. “On one condition.”

“Elna.”

I shake my head. “Baby, call me baby.” His eyes narrow, I bat my eyelashes and he sighs, I want to be his baby too. “What are you hiding?” His mouth drops, fear races through me. “I know you are hiding something?” He confirmed it by his reaction. His jaw ticks, I allow a second pass before saying, “What? Say it. I am no longer attractive to you? Is it another woman?” My voice cracks, he pries my hands off him. “It better not be Sophia.”

The rest of my words are swallowed in a harsh, punishing kiss. I wince when he kneads my nipple harder than he should have. He withdraws to frown at me, I avoid his gaze.

“Do you think I’ll cheat on you?” he asks, his finger under my jaw so I can’t look away.

Cracking my knuckles under his glare, my body throbs. My hands reach for his face but he shakes his head and tears well up my eyes. He is disappointed in me. I don’t like it.

“No.”

He nods and a suffocating weight settles in my chest, I am too insecure. “So why did you say that?” I stare foolishly at him, lacking words to defend myself. “You can’t go around throwing accusations because you feel like it, okay?” His voice softens towards the end, I nod and he lets me palm his face much to my relief. “It’s you, it’s always you. I promise.”

“But you are hiding something. I know it.”

The smile he rewards my statement has my defences rising. We might have been a couple for only six months but I like to think I know my husband. And my instinct tells me to insist. He bops my nose, I grimace, he is stalling. I am right, he is hiding something.

“Brandon,” I draw out his name, his face goes blank and I am tempted to retreat before I ruin our pleasant evening but I can’t. My hands circle his wrists. “What are you hiding?”

His blank expression crashes, mirth dances across his face and he bends to give me a forehead kiss. Still within an arm’s reach, he says, “Way to ruin the surprise, El.”

My laughter resounds when he tickles me, I wheeze, pushing him away. A smile plays on his lips, I wink. Together, we depart the kitchen, our hands swinging as we take the stairs. I sink my teeth into my lip to avoid giving in to my curiosity, my head jerks in his direction when we stop at a wooden door and he drops a key on my palm. There are so many rooms in this house, rooms I have never cared to check out. Including this one.

The key is cold against my palm, I stare at it long enough for Brandon to nudge me. He motions for me to open the door, I shake my head and he groans. “What’s inside?”

Brandon lets out an exaggerated sigh. “The thing I have been hiding.” His response only serves to heighten my curiosity, after two shaky trials, he has to open the door himself.

The smell of fresh paint hits me first, the scent of wood assaults my nose. I place a hand over my mouth and Brandon is right in front of me. I smile to reassure him, he rushes to open the window. Fresh air and light flood the room, I let out a grateful breath.

I blink. Once, twice. Wait a minute.

What is this place? Taking measured steps to the unfinished crib by the corner. My hand reaches for it but I don’t touch it for fear of ruining the masterpiece. Unable to stop the tremors in my fingers, I shove them into my scalp and nod, willing my eyes to stay dry.

Tears prick my eyes. This is what my baby has been hiding. Slowly sinking to my knees with his aid, my fingers move across the wooden material. My heart thumps inside my chest like a caged beast, I swipe a hand over my nose. I didn’t think of a nursery, he didn’t mention it and I didn’t care. We have time, four months until the baby shows up.

Our baby is due in December, a week after my birthday. Speaking of birthdays, I need to finish the dinner plans I am making for the best man that has happened to me this year.

“I wanted to show you when I was done,” he says with a shrug. “Was I very obvious?”

He has been out of it, coming home later than usual, giving work excuses I might have believed if Dina didn’t volunteer his schedule. I drove to his office and he wasn’t even there. Dina kept my visit a secret because I lied about wanting to surprise him. To be fair, it’s not a lie. I need to show him how much I love him in every sense of the word.

The bucket of paint catches my eyes, I stare at the off-white walls of this large room the same size as my parent’s parlour and my lips pucker at the thought that hits me. Our child might be spoilt. A sigh escapes me, I push that worry to the back of my mind, the future will take care of itself. For now, I will admire the only furniture in the room.

Our baby’s unfinished crib.

“Not really,” I say after what feels like ages. I point to the crib. “Did you make this?”

He nuzzles my neck, I lean into him, my support. “Yes, it’s harder than it looks.”

We chuckle, my heart melts into a puddle of affection for him. I love him. Too much and I miss the feel of his body when he stands. My question dies down when he returns with a bucket. Brandon opens it, we stare at the blue paint, then our eyes return to our faces.

A thrill of anticipation runs through me, my face lights up and he rubs his hands. I know I did this at my parent’s house in the heat of the moment but I can tell it has become our thing and my heart overflows with joy at this knowledge. “Are you ready?” he asks.

I am the first one to press a paint-coated palm to the wall. Brandon’s laughter tickles me, I pout and make another print. His palm appears right next to mine, my heart swells with love and pride, we spend the rest of the evening making prints on our baby’s wall.