One night, Christine came home from work. I was in the bedroom watching TV and working on the laptop.

“Close your eyes and put your hand out,” she says to me.

I do as I’m told. I’m expecting candy, chocolate, maybe a homemade cookie baked by a patient of hers. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel edible. It was made of plastic. My first thought was a handy dandy toothpick holder, a freebie from my employer, something I can probably pick up on my own from HR. I opened my eyes to see what looked like a white plastic letter opener. I sat there, quiet (only because I didn’t know what it was).

“That’s a pregnancy test,” she tells me.

“It is?”

“Yes. It’s positive.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth hung open as I stared at the test in my hand.

“Really?”

She nodded.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Yep!”

When we got married, Christine’s clock was ticking. But we couldn’t conceive, no matter what we tried. It got to the point where we both accepted the fact that it wasn’t gonna happen. I think we were both ok with that, but sometimes I wonder “what if”. Daniel is my stepson. I treat him as my own, but I constantly remind myself that he is not my child. When we picked up Salem from the pound, he helped fill that void. I spoil that dog rotten; he is my child, my son, my boy (even if he has four legs and a lot of fur).

Needless to say, Christine’s news was a pleasant surprise and wonderful to hear.

“Well, this changes everything!” I said.

“Yep!”