I didn’t expect it to work. I had the transfer, I carried on with life, I didn’t feel any different. But then I didn’t feel any different when I was pregnant with what became my son. And so when I took the test I genuinely had no idea what it would tell me. Then I saw that faint second blue line that I’m always loath to think of as definitively “pregnant” and so, as I told B, echoing the words I’d previously uttered, “I’m not ‘not pregnant'”. And when the line got darker, and the blood test showed only good things, I dared to believe that I might actually be “pregnant”. And the thing was that although I hadn’t expected it to work, when it appeared to have done, I just assumed that it would be a carbon copy of the pregnancy that I’d had with that first donor egg, first time around. After all, both the embryo that was sitting in front of me as a wiggling, jiggling boy, and the one that was sitting inside me, were created on exactly the same day. They were both graded the same quality. While I could never take anything for granted, never assume anything, I could see no real reason why the one inside me would not go on to become another one outside me. Until I started bleeding at just over five weeks.