I don't remember getting home.
One moment I'm sitting in Dr. Yu's office with those words echoing in my head—*five weeks pregnant*—and the next I'm standing outside a pharmacy three blocks from the hospital, staring at rows of pregnancy tests through the window.
The hospital could have made a mistake.
Labs mix up samples all the time, someone else's blood in my vial, my results given to another patient. It happens.
It has to have happened.
I push through the pharmacy door.
The person behind the counter doesn't look up from his phone as I grab a pregnancy test from the family planning aisle. The cheapest one, the kind with two lines for positive, one for negative.
Simple.
Definitive.
I pay cash and leave.
***
I don't remember the walk home either.
But suddenly I'm in my bathroom, the test stick unwrapped in my shaking hands, instructions spread on the counter.
Urinate on the absorbent tip for five seconds.
Wait three minutes.
Two lines: pregnant.
