They called the pregnancy “high risk” in the notes. The doctor mentioned it briefly—possible cardiac strain, complications due to age, unpredictable outcomes. He said it clinically, as though listing weather patterns. But beneath the words, Tula heard it clearly: this wasn’t just unusual. It was dangerous.
Tula lay back against the stiff hospital pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Pregnant. The word didn’t fit in her mouth. It was too absurd, too impossible. She was seventy-two. Her bones ache when it rains. How was she supposed to explain this—to Ashley, to Robert, to the world?