Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when my wife, Faith, told me she was pregnant.
At the time, we were staying with my parents after a trans-Atlantic move; we had no house, no jobs and no car. My initial reaction was to relay these facts to my wife, which I admit wasn’t my finest moment. I was, and to some degree still am, petrified.
After taking approximately ten increasingly expensive pregnancy tests (just to make sure) and having it confirmed by a doctor, we both started to believe that we were actually going to have a baby. I was quite eager (to say the least) to get things moving. So I bought a car.
The stay at my parents’ was meant to be very temporary, but getting a job was proving to be no easy task. When Faith told me she was pregnant, we’d been living in the room I grew up in for five months – not a great place to start a family. The same day, as we took number nine of the ten tests, we received a text from an acquaintance telling us they had a spare room if we were interested. It was just a room, but it was in the town we’d been planning to move to. We were excited.
Within a few weeks I was in our little car, with my wife (who’d since begun to throw up religiously), heading to our new room, in our new town.
