Sunlight flooded through the window.  I lay on the bed with one hand resting on my belly and the other grasping my husband’s hand.  He turned to smile at me, and I smiled back.  We lay like that for what felt like a long time, in this room, now warm with sunlight. I felt my belly begin to swell under my hand and to grow warm, hot even.  I glanced over at the pregnancy test on the bedside table and checked that it was still positive.

Then I was standing, barefoot on grass, surrounded by women wearing what looked like the softest and most expensive cashmere I’d ever seen.  A few of the women were young, a few were old, all of them wanted to hug me.  As they drew in closer I recognised them as my sister, my best friend, my Mother and my Mother-in-law.  They were all smiling at me and resting their hands on my belly.  I smiled back…

And then, like an episode of Dallas or Dynasty or any other 1980s drama that relies heavily on dream sequences, I woke up.  To the sound of my husband’s thunderous snoring, in a freezing cold bedroom, in the middle of January.  I rested my hands my stomach but the only bump I could feel was made of cake, not baby.

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