Wen Yin sat on the toilet, the pregnancy stick clenched in her hand, staring at the two bright lines as if they might explain themselves. For a moment she had convinced herself it was just a late period—how naive that had been.
There was a knock at the door.
"Yin? Everything okay?"
Shao Yinan stood in the doorway holding the pack of sanitary pads she always used. Wen Yin stepped out slowly, the test still pinched between her fingers. Even the calmest people could be undone by a surprise like this.
"What's wrong?"
Shao Yinan noticed her face and, without thinking, offered the pads. Wen Yin shoved them aside.
"I…won't need these for a while."
He took the remark at face value—pregnancy again being late—and was about to set the pack down when she tugged his sleeve and thrust the test into his hand.
"Congratulations, Mr. Shao," she said, deadpan. "You won."
He stared at the two bright bars as if they were a trick of the light. His expression was blank, then stunned, then somewhere softer. "Yin…"
Seeing him like that—an expression she had never seen on him before—made something warm and fierce float up inside her. She touched her belly as if to confirm the feeling.
"We're having a child," she said.
Before she knew what she was doing, Shao Yinan scooped her up in one motion and carried her across the room. Wen Yin blinked, bewildered. "What are you doing?"
"You aren't wearing slippers," he replied with a nervous little smile as he carefully sat her back on the bed. He looked at her like a man seeing color for the first time. Then, half-embarrassed, he asked, "Can I…touch him?"
She nodded. He placed his hand gently on her lower belly. There was nothing to feel yet, but he wore a small, private smile that made Wen Yin want to laugh—and to cry—at once.
"Idiot," she managed, nudging him with her foot.
"You're going to be late for work," she scolded, trying to restore order.
"I won't go," he said simply, and immediately began calling the family doctor with a flurry of anxious efficiency.
"Congratulations, Mr. Shao," the doctor reported over the phone later. "About four weeks along. The baby looks healthy."
It should have settled him. It did—into the fact that their lives had just shifted into a new orbit. But the difficult part came next.
Wen Yin's first trimester was a parade of nausea. She could barely keep anything down. It was so bad that sometimes her stomach felt empty even when she had just eaten. The strangest thing, though, was that Shao Yinan started vomiting too.
At first she thought it was a misplaced attempt at solidarity. Then the doctor explained it: couvade syndrome—sympathetic pregnancy. Men, when so anxious and so devoted, can exhibit psychosomatic symptoms. No physiological cause, but the mind is stubborn. He was suffering along with her because he loved her too much.
She both wanted to laugh and wanted to bawl. Between the two of them, they lost weight. The Zhuos, the Shaos, the Wens—everyone took turns sending chefs and comfort. Nothing helped much. Wen Yin could cook, but Shao Yinan wouldn't let her near the stove in case the smells made her worse. So they hunted for chefs who could make things she might stomach.
Wen Zheru and Madam Qi turned up every other day like doting relatives. After the wedding the couple had moved out of Wen Yin's family home into a villa in Xingyuan; seeing her unwell, Madam Qi had bought the neighboring villa and stayed close by almost constantly.
Shao Mingyang paced the sofa furiously one evening, watching his son grow thinner by the day. "When are you going back to work?" he demanded.
Shao Yinan, sitting on the armrest, patiently cracked sunflower seeds for his wife and said without looking up, "In a few months."
Mingyang's face darkened. He had been pulling double shifts all week and missed his little princess. But nothing he tried could move Shao Yinan. The younger man wouldn't leave Wen Yin's side, so Mingyang stomped off in a huff.
Slowly—after two months—Wen Yin began to eat again. Her appetite returned with an astonishing appetite for...everything. In a matter of weeks she recovered in the flesh. She was fuller, healthier, maybe even more beautiful than before. The small, spoiled habits she had developed under Shao Yinan's constant indulgence, however, had not softened.
One morning at the breakfast table she poked at a bowl of century egg and shredded pork congee and, with a weary face, dumped in two generous spoonfuls of vinegar before taking a tentative bite. She pushed the bowl toward him.
"Take it. Don't waste it."
Shao Yinan's Adam's apple bobbed. "Honey, that—it's pretty sour, isn't it?"
Wen Yin's eyes narrowed, a chill briefly flashing through her. Then tears pricked the corners and her mouth pouted. "So you do start getting tired of me now, don't you?"
He snapped the spoon to his lips and swallowed hard. It was outrageously sour. He winced, but forced himself to finish every slurpy mouthful.
"I can't finish this beef patty," she said in a leisurely tone, pointing to the plate nearby. "You can have it."
Her husband looked like he had been offered a lemon painted gold. The beef patty had been specially made—braised with thin strips of preserved mustard greens she loved—and the cook had doubled the vinegar just for her. Shao Yinan reached for it with trembling hands, trying to keep a calm face. He ate it because otherwise it would be proof he didn't love her.
By the end of the meal he had eaten two of those patties, three sweet red-bean buns, a bowl of congee and a bowl of hot-and-sour rice noodles. He was stuffed, but still knelt down to help Wen Yin into her shoes.
"Don't you get tired of this?" she teased, wiggling her toes at him.
He took her foot in his steady hand. "Never," he said. When he looked up, the devotion in his eyes made her feel small and cherished, like someone on the edge of drowning being pulled gently to shore.
Wen Yin realised, belatedly, that she had become a little spoiled. She leaned against his shoulder, nuzzled into him, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"Reward," she murmured.
The day she gave birth, even after they learned it would be a girl, Shao Yinan was a bundle of frantic tenderness. He hovered so close to the delivery room they might have kicked him out if he hadn't been so useful. Hours later, when Wen Yin was finally brought back to them, sweat beaded on her face. She opened her eyes and saw him there, his own eyes red at the corners.
"Yin," he sobbed, the words raw and ridiculous. "Let's never do that again."
He didn't mean the baby—he meant watching her in pain. Tears fell from his face like they had no business being there.
Wen Yin smiled despite herself. "You fool," she said.
The little bundle on her chest had a wrinkled forehead like a tiny old man. Wen Yin glanced down. "You didn't hold her?"
He shook his head, hesitant. "I couldn't. I was afraid I'd drop her."
Madam Qi and the others busied themselves nearby. "She doesn't have a name yet, does she?"
"Have you thought of one, Mr. Shao?" asked Li Xiangwei, bringing a small basket into the room.
Shao Yinan blinked, embarrassed by their expectant faces. He held the baby awkwardly, protective and proprietary. As the child lay there, quiet and soft, something in his heart softened with a new, slow surety.
Wen Yin laughed lightly. "He's thought of one."
"Shao Mujin," Shao Yinan said, meeting Wen Yin's eyes as if sealing the name with that look.
Shao. Mujin. The sound of it was soft and steady, like a promise.