Three hours later, I stare down at the white plastic stick in my hand, laughing. I laugh and laugh and laugh, until eventually I start to cry. Sobbing, I look up at my bathroom ceiling. “God, I’d just like you to know that I officially hate your guts. And don’t expect to hear from me ever again.” I throw the stick in the trashcan and go into the living room to call my mother. She’s always wanted to be a grandma.
