“Know what?”
“About the pregnancy. My blood. All of this.”
Daniel sat down and closed his eyes.
It turned out that two months earlier, he had found my late mother’s journal. In it, she had written that the women in our family sometimes suffered from hereditary anemia, which could be especially dangerous during the early stages of pregnancy.
When Daniel noticed that I had become pale and was constantly tired, he secretly consulted a doctor.
He hadn’t known about the pregnancy. He had simply been afraid that if he told me about his suspicions, I would remember the babies we had lost and panic.
“And 7:14?” I asked. “Why did you always close the curtains at exactly that time?”
Daniel’s eyes filled with tears.
He opened an old photograph on his phone. It showed my mother standing in the kitchen, holding an identical white bowl.
“Before your mother died, she told me that when you were little, she gave you this soup every evening at 7:14. That’s the exact time you were born. She asked me to prepare it for you if I ever noticed that you weren’t well.”
I looked at my husband and finally understood.
The secret phone calls weren’t connected to an affair. He wasn’t hiding anything sinister in the garage. He had simply been drying the herbs needed for my mother’s recipe.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
“I know. I was wrong. I was just so afraid of losing you again.”
That evening, I didn’t eat the soup because he forced me to.
