However complex Gwenaëlle's feelings about motherhood are and have been, there's a moment where she just sits with the recognition of what it is that she feels, listening to him now: relief.

It's relief. It's a relief to hear him say no, that she isn't going to disappoint him with coming to the conclusion that maybe I've thought it would be easier to die than have that conversation isn't the thought of someone who should be considering pregnancy in any context other than its prevention. It's a weight off that she hadn't realised she's been holding onto, this twist of guilt—

Maybe she'll make peace with these things. But maybe it's fine, after all, if that doesn't mean she has a baby about it.

“You'd be good at that, I think,” she decides, tipping her head to scrutinise him as if she's considering his qualifications for the role in the edge of his jaw and the sharpness of his goatee. “I have some practise. Especially with the presents and the outings part, though I don't know what I'm going to do when I can't spend my grandfather's money any more.”

This isn't true. She has the sort of books that suggest a mind that would have really taken to spreadsheets.