She took another breath, just for the joy of it. Then she looked down at June, who was already scrunching up her tiny face, rooting for milk, utterly unaware that for her mother, every clear breath from now on would feel like a small miracle.

“My nose is broken, Leo. Not emotionally. Mechanically.”

The first sign wasn’t a missed period or a wave of morning sickness. For Maya, it was the nose.

“So we’re having a baby,” Leo said, pulling her into a hug, “and you’re going to sound like Darth Vader for nine months?”

“Thank you for that poetic diagnosis,” Maya replied, dabbing at her raw nose with a menthol tissue.