So, this is another piece I wrote for English - it's short because the word limit was 1, you can see, I've gone over it already...hehehe...anyway, I hope you like it! :)



The door slammed. Our fights usually ended like this, but he'd always come back an hour later, drunk. Then we'd both apologise, for whatever we said to each other in our bursts of anger. But this time was different – this time he was being deployed to Afghanistan. He'd thrown all his gear into a bag, hefted it onto his right shoulder and left, just like that.

I stared helplessly at the door, praying he wouldn't do something foolish out in the field. We both knew his career could cost him his life, and we had come to terms with it, but still, I never stopped worrying.

Days were always lonely when he was away. Our newly bought apartment was dead without him to lighten the atmosphere. There were no sudden bangs and clangs whenever he dropped something, no laughter, not even any curses – just silence.

About two weeks after he left, I woke at the crack of dawn, feeling sick. This continued for a few days, and being sick of constantly throwing up, I made an appointment at the doctors to get rid of whatever bug I had.

Smiling a smile that couldn't have been natural, she prescribed me a urine and blood test. The urine test was easy, but disgusting. The blood test was hell – it hurt, and the lady taking my blood just couldn't stop smiling for some reason after she read the scribbled words from my doctor. It was terrifying.

"I'll call you when I get the results to these," she chirped, still smiling.

The nausea didn't stop – sometimes it'd come in ungodly hours of morning, sometimes late at night, sometimes right after a meal. Was I somehow a bulimic without realising it? However, I had gained weight over the past week. That wasn't possible was it - for a bulimic to gain weight?

Another week passed, and bulimia was definitely out of the question. I was eating much more than I usually did, and sometimes resorted to raiding the stores for meals I normally wouldn't even look at. This was getting more and more bizarre.

I wished either Logan or my mother were with me, but both were impossible. Logan was away in Afghanistan, doing what he loved, and earning a living for us, whilst my mother had been somewhat inaccessible for years, having lost her battle against breast cancer.

The phone call came a day and a week after my doctor's visit. I had just finished my waitressing shift for the day when my phone buzzed.

"I have good news for you, Kira, but you'll have to get it from another clinic. Do you have a pen and some paper on you?" She sounded even chirpier than I remembered – which was definitely a bad sign. She read me an address, and I hurriedly wrote it onto a napkin, making a mental note to visit that clinic the next day.

I found myself at the steps of an obstetrician's clinic.

Suddenly, everything was obvious – the sickness, food cravings, and the weight gain. I was pregnant.

The doctor inside greeted me, smiling. He sat me down and fished out the note from my GP, reading it over. If possible, his smile grew even wider at whatever medical words were scrawled on the paper.

"Congratulations, you've got a healthy baby growing in there. Now, come back on the..." His mouth was still moving, but for some reason, no sound reached my ears.

He confirmed my suspicion – I was going to have a baby.

I was going to be a mother.

Was I the only one who didn't find this news pleasant?

I should've - would've - been ecstatic, but it was a bad – no, horrible – time for a child. Logan and I were going through a rough patch, mostly from the stress caused by the mortgage. There was no way we'd be able to raise a child – we could barely provide for ourselves after the purchase of our apartment.

Besides, we weren't ready for parent-hood – he was constantly being deported to various destinations around the world, and I was…I was just terrified.

One thing was certain though – the next eight months were going to be hell. For starters, how was I going to break it to Logan? Would he be excited or would he be...disappointed? I couldn't decide which reaction was better.

Different scenarios played out on repeat in my mind over the next few days. Every single one, no matter how optimistic, ended up with me crying, or him storming out, or both.

This baby would tear us apart.

The fourth week dragged on, until finally, the fateful day came – Logan was returning from a month-long service in Afghanistan. It'd be time to break the news to him. But when I arrived at the airport, I was greeted by a fellow in Logan's squad.

"You're Logan's wife aren't you?" He asked. I replied, completely confused as to why he would confront me, when he said, "Logan signed up for an extra month back there. They need all the help they can get, and he's one of the best. He said you'd understand…I'm sorry you won't get to see him for another's hard isn't it?"

"Yeah...thanks for telling me."

A part of me died inside, then. He was staying for an extra month and he didn't tell me? He could've called, or written, or something!

"No problem. Congratulations on the baby by the way – Logan will be so excited when he finds out!" He smiled, and disappeared into the crowd somewhere - probably being reunited with his long-time girlfriend.

Hearing that he would be delighted about our unborn child calmed a lot of my nerves. And this judgement was from his squad-mate, who knew him very well. So there was nothing to worry about. Right?

The second month was horrible - the sickness continued, my cravings became stranger and I was getting fatter and fatter. My back hurt, my feet hurt, and I was in a bad mood altogether. Nothing went the way I wanted it to.

It was five days before Logan would be coming home, when I got the phone call.

"Good evening Mrs Williams, this is Logan's team Captain. I'm incredibly sorry to be the bearer of this news, but your husband was hit just yesterday by friendly fire..."

That's all I heard before everything went black.