My body was used to not bleeding—thanks to being on a mini-pill which shut my cycle down. And Ren was the single most important thing on my mind; nothing else mattered.
If I wasn’t with him during the day, I was reading about trials and diet supplements at night.
If we weren’t working every hour the sun gave us in the fields, we were making love or sleeping under the stars.
I felt the same as always. I had no morning sickness, no nausea, stomach pains, breast tenderness, or food cravings.
There were no signs from before.
No hint that I was pregnant—ectopic or otherwise.
And then, John went ahead and gifted us a future that was solid and unbelievably safe, and we had even more on our minds.
One hundred acres of land.
Land with our names on it.
Land that Ren would turn into a fortune.
When I’d stood watching them argue about such a gift, I’d been pregnant.
When Ren took me to bed that night and made love to me roughly, dominantly, I’d been pregnant.
When I went with him to his next treatment and check-up with his oncologist, I’d been pregnant.
Son or daughter?
Boy or girl?
I didn’t know.
Because I didn’t even know I was knocked-up.
The news stayed secret for three and a half months.
There were no missing periods to count. No calendar days to circle. No nudges to perhaps take a test.
As the months went on, Ren and I carved out an hour here and there during the busy season to visit the bank.
The novelty of having drivers licenses—after sitting the tests—and marriage certificates never failed to bring a smile to our faces.
We weren’t illegal or unknown.
We were hard working, trust-worthy, and had assets, thanks to John.
The bank approved us for a loan to build a modest three bed, two bath house on the land John had so kindly given us.
Signing the documents—agreeing to a debt named ‘mortgage’ which literally translated to death pledge in French—we didn’t waste any time. We’d gone from forest children to mortgaged adults, and somehow, we were no longer afraid of ties or roots. We’d found our corner of the world and were perfectly content.
A week later, we’d signed with a building company that promised a full house finished and delivered in six months and broke ground a few days later.
Life sped ahead as if in apology.
The winds blew in our favour, sailing us through smooth waters after being in a storm for so long.
Even Ren’s health wasn’t as terrifying as before. Another three treatments of Keytruda, and Rick Mackenzie decided he’d reached stable condition.
Ren was taken off the three weekly appointments but kept regular check-ups.
He no longer coughed as badly, and his slight rattle was quieter at night. His body was strong and toned, his appetite big and demanding, his smile bright and pain-free.
He didn’t slow down for a moment—despite the nasty secret squatting in his lungs.
If anything, he became more physical, glowing with life and longevity.
I schooled my heart not to get too hopeful.
I begged my ears not to take the good news from doctors and twist it to believe he was cured.
Ren would never be cured.
But we had bought some time.
And we spent every second wisely.
When the diggers churned meadow to mud for the house’s foundation, Ren and I kissed with our boots in the freshly tilled dirt beneath the moon.
When we weren’t overseeing the builders creating our house, we were helping Cassie with her own construction. She’d taken her land and run with it—designing a larger barn, stables, arena, and round pen for her new equine venture.
As I’d been part of the conception and brain storming phase, Cassie asked if I’d help manage it with her. To become her partner, if I wanted, or an employee, if I preferred.
Her eyes gave another offer, too. An offer that said I’d forever have work and a way to support myself…even when Ren wasn’t there with me.
We’d hugged with tears streaming and broke apart when Ren appeared with a heavy sack of horse feed over his shoulder.
He constantly worked.
He never stopped.
He made me nervous.
Yes, his body was stable.
But, surely, he shouldn’t over-do it?
By the time I noticed what was cooking inside me, the foundations of our house were poured, the framework was up, and Ren was site foreman as well as farm overseer, cracking the whip every day to ensure things ran smoothly.
Watching him stride across pastures in faded, scuffed jeans and a white t-shirt stained with toil and tractor grease, I’d never been more in love with him. When he showered away sweat and grime from a long day working, I’d never been more in lust with him.
Just because I knew an end was coming, didn’t mean I could stop loving him. And I fell even deeper when our first income poured in from a smaller paddock that we’d sold as free-standing hay—not having the time to cut and bale ourselves.