Last year on April 1st, when he picked me up from the evening train from Munich, I took Oliver to a nearby hotel bar for a sundowner. After we ordered our drinks, I handed him a gift bag overflowing with colored tissue paper. He pulled out a bundle and unwrapped this book:
I had my life list, I told him and I knew he had one too, at least in his head. And since he hadn’t written one down, I explained, I thought I would give him a book of ideas to inspire him.
Then I told him to open it to a particular page and read the entry. As he flipped through the pages, I handed him a pen, telling him that he could already check something off.
He took the pen and his eyes dropped to the page. Reaching the bottom, I saw his brow furrow a little. I saw him read it again, the little crease getting deeper.
He stared at the page, and then looked up at me, bemused… or perhaps insulted?
Whatever it was, this was not the expression I was expecting at all. I took the book from him and looked at the page he had read.
I’d intended for him to look at this page:
But instead he’d read this page:
And that’s how I told him the first time I was pregnant.