Accidents Happen

1. Ooops.

I stared in horror at the two pink lines that appeared on the little white stick in my shaking hands. It had to be a mistake. This couldn't be happening. I brushed my brunette fringe from my eyes, hoping it was just my vision being obscured. But the lines remained. I checked back on the box I'd unwrapped minutes before. One line; negative. Two lines; positive. Maybe I'd done it wrong. It had said for best results use the first urine taken in the morning. It was three in the afternoon by the time I'd worked up the courage to go to the shop and buy one. It was now nine at night.

But the sickness, the headaches, the tiredness. There was no mistaking those symptoms. And the clincher, the biggest confirmation was the fact that my period was three weeks late. And it was never late.

I'd had been living in denial for the last two weeks and six days. Ignoring the blaring truth. Because if I simply ignored it, then it wasn't happening. Because this was possibly the worst thing that could've happened. I was in no position to raise a child. I didn't want to raise a child. I was twenty six years old, living in a studio flat above a Chinese take away in east London with my boyfriend of six months, with no job and four thousand miles from home.

And the worse thing. The thing that just topped off this amazingly awful news, was that the pregnancy was nothing to do with him him. My basic high school knowledge of conception had me down as roughly five weeks pregnant. And Scott had been away for six weeks in Iraq with the army.

'Fuck.' I muttered. This wasn't supposed to happen. I'd been told it would never happen. Thanks to the medication I had to take every day of my life from the age of four, I'd been left infertile.

What now?