Goodbye Vodka. Again.

Exactly two months after the discovery of the expiration of our zygote, I found myself staring at a faint blue line. Again.

It was my Grandfather’s birthday, a wonderful man who fought in WWII, sired four children, lived a quiet life as an accountant and wrote dirty novels. He loved dirty jokes, scotch and his family. He had died the year before.

It was also Halloween.  A day of masks, of make-believe, of tall tales.  It was a day meant to be fanciful, easy-going, full of booze and naked women.  And it was the day I learned I was pregnant again.