He set the card down and opened the trash bin under the sink, telling himself he was just looking for the receipt from the flowers. Instead, tucked beneath a layer of paper towels, he found a small box, crushed flat like someone had wanted it gone quickly. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands.
It was a pregnancy test box, with the plastic wand missing. His mind went still for a second, then started running through every possible explanation at once, none of them landing anywhere good. They’d talked about kids before he left, and agreed to wait until he was back for good. Were seven months enough time for plans to change without him?
Behind the box, half-hidden, sat a pharmacy bag with a stapled receipt. He pulled it free and scanned the label — prenatal vitamins, filled three weeks ago. Instead of the patient’s name, it was a number ID. He set it down with a sigh of frustration.