It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her last. I’m trying to figure out what’s different about her, but I can’t place it.

She nervously places her teacup down, straightening her skirt. Her eyes continually flit between me and her hands, which are fiddling with her apron.

“Rose?” she whispers, finally looking at me fully, apprehensively.

I wait.

“I-I…I’m pregnant, Rosalie,” she breathes, her eyes shimmering with equal parts delight and sadness.

The stab of pain in my chest takes the air from my lungs as I try to come up with a suitable response.

“Rose… please… don’t be upset. Please?”