when i first heard i was pregnant it was raining—a steady, even downpour. i sat there with adrian next to me, the pregnancy test clutched in my palm loosely, staring at the little pink sign. your father remained silent and merely held his hand on my thigh, comforting me with this simple gesture. i felt a wave of emotion—beautiful emotions—and i brought adrian’s hand from my leg to my stomach. i pressed down on it hard.

‘here,’ i whispered fiercely. ‘they’re here.’

later, when adrian had left to go to work (he was working double shift at the restaurant, to free up as much time as he could when you are born), it was still raining. i went outside and climbed my way up until i was on our roof.

and i lay there. i closed my eyes and let the rain soak through my clothes and i felt like it was all sinking down into my skin and soothing my bones. i wanted you to feel the rain. i wondered if you were aware of the pounding against my stomach, the soft gentle splash of it all.

the rain would help you grow, i thought.

i was sick for a week afterwards, but every time it rains i can’t help but smile.