"How was your weekend?" my colleagues ask.
"Great!" I answer, thinking I had my first miscarriage.
I told myself that I would think in all the appropriate terms. Zygote, blastocyst, embryo. I know all the statistics. I know that I had a 20-50% chance that it would end too soon. I wouldn't skip ahead. I would take each day as it comes.
But as I felt those twinges inside me, I got attached far too quickly. I imagined being pregnant during the Winter holidays, and the baby being born in Spring. We would have our first child before I turned thirty.
I should be happy, that I know that we can now at least get pregnant, that somewhere inside me a sperm can meet an egg. Objective: fertilisation - achieved. This should be a good sign.
However, I can't help but feel a little empty.