On the third day, my phone rang.
I was standing in the kitchen when I saw the laboratory’s number.
My heart stopped.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is the laboratory.”
I gripped the counter.
“Did you find something?”
There was a pause.
“We need to discuss the results with you in person.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“We think it’s better if you come in.”
“Is it poison?”
Another pause.
“We didn’t find anything that would indicate poisoning. But there are some unusual findings we would like to explain.”
I thanked them and hung up.
For a moment, I couldn’t move.
They hadn’t found poison.
That should have made me feel safe.
Instead, I was even more confused.
I went to the laboratory that afternoon.
A doctor met me in a small consultation room.
He placed several pages on the desk.
I sat down.
My hands were cold.
He looked at me.
“We didn’t find any poisonous substances or sedatives.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in days, I breathed properly.
Relief flooded through me.
Daniel wasn’t poisoning me.
At least, that was what I thought.
Then the doctor continued.
“However…”
I opened my eyes.
“The soup contains unusually high amounts of iron, folic acid, and several nutrients.”
I stared at him.
“Why would someone put that in soup?”
“We can’t tell you why. But whoever prepared it appears to have deliberately made it very nutrient-dense.”
“Could it make me sick?”
“Not necessarily. But given your symptoms, I’d like to know how you’re feeling.”
“Tired.”
“Anything else?”
“Dizziness. Weakness. Sometimes nausea.”
The doctor studied me.
“How long?”
“Several weeks.”
He leaned back.
“Have you seen another doctor?”
“No.”
“Have you had a blood test recently?”
“No.”
He looked at me carefully.
“You don’t look well. I strongly recommend having a blood test today.”
I agreed.
The nurse took several samples.
Then I waited.
An hour later, the doctor returned.
His expression was completely different.
He closed the door behind him.
“Mrs. Carter…”
I knew immediately that something was wrong.
“What is it?”
He sat down.
“Your hemoglobin level is dangerously low.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re significantly anemic. You need medical follow-up.”
I swallowed.
“Is that why I’ve been so tired?”
“Very likely.”
I looked down at my hands.
Then the doctor said something that made the entire room disappear around me.
“And there’s something else.”
I looked up.
“What?”
He paused.
“You’re pregnant.”
For several seconds, I didn’t understand the words.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in my mind.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re approximately seven weeks along.”
I stared at him.
Seven weeks.
Seven.
I couldn’t breathe.
I placed a hand over my mouth.
“Are you sure?”
“The test is positive.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Daniel and I had wanted a child for years.
Years.
We had dreamed about a baby.
We had chosen names.
We had imagined a nursery.
We had talked about what our child might look like.
Then came the miscarriages.
Two of them.
After the second one, something inside both of us broke.
The doctors warned us that another pregnancy could be dangerous for me.
Eventually, we stopped talking about having children.
We stopped buying baby things.
Stopped making plans.
Stopped hoping.
At least, I thought we had.
I left the laboratory holding the results.
My hands were still shaking.
But this time, the fear was mixed with something else.
Hope.
And confusion.
Because suddenly the soup made sense.
The iron.
The folic acid.
The nutrients.
But there was still one question I couldn’t answer.
If Daniel knew I was pregnant…
How?
I hadn’t known.
So how could he?
