The trip was canceled. Instead of driving towards a new future, they drove to the local clinic. There, in a small, unassuming room, the universe finally revealed its punchline: Olivia was pregnant. Sixteen weeks along.

Peter nearly lost his mind. His roar of pure, unadulterated joy echoed through the clinic. He hugged the doctor, he hugged the nurse, he tried to hug a potted fern in the corner. The gynecologist, a woman of stern demeanor, threatened to call security if he didn’t stop trying to rearrange her meticulously organized pamphlets on prenatal care. From that day on, their lives recalibrated around a single point of focus: the coming miracle. Peter became a guardian, a hunter-gatherer of the highest order. He prowled the farmer’s market like a hawk, interrogating vendors about nitrates and pesticides, returning with the finest organic cheeses, fruits, and vegetables for his queen. Olivia, a woman with a master’s degree in education and two decades of experience, found herself being lectured on the nutritional benefits of kale by a man whose previous culinary peak was microwaving leftovers.