The second blue line appeared at 6:13 on a Tuesday morning.

I sat on the bathroom floor of our townhouse in Portland, Oregon, gripping the pregnancy test with both hands as if it might break. For three years, my husband, Nolan Greer, and I had been trying for a baby. Three years of doctor visits, bloodwork, disappointment, forced smiles at baby showers, and nights when I cried quietly while he pretended to be asleep.

And now it was real.

I ran downstairs barefoot, still wrapped in my robe, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Nolan,” I whispered.