“You’re not on the pill.” It was more of an assumption than a question. I never had sex—why would I need to be? Pushing away from him, I pulled a bra strap back onto my shoulder as an icy trickle of panic crawled up my spine. “No.” I could only imagine if I got pregnant while my husband was on his deathbed and couldn’t conceive with a helper and a bottle of Viagra. Nothing but a whore. Whore. Whore. My lungs squeezed, tightening and tightening with a band that wouldn’t release. Tears burned the backs of my eyes. Two rough hands grasped my face. “Breathe.”
