Five years into our marriage, I noticed a dark cloud above my husband’s head. At first it looked like dust, then like a storm cloud, and finally it grew so thick it seemed ready to drip like ink. Only I could see it. The doctor said it was an anxiety-induced hallucination, but the bloody marks from digging my nails into my palm were real. So was kneeling by the toilet at three in the morning, retching. So was the fact that he had forgotten how to get home.
The more overtime I worked revising proposals, the quieter he became, lying flat and saying nothing. Then, late one night, I told him I was pregnant. He said, “At a time like this?” I broke down, stammering and repeating, “What are we going to do?”
But then he suddenly said, “I’m taking annual leave. I’ll go to your checkups with you.”
