It was a painful blister, on the arc of my right foot. It was one that had stopped me wearing closed in shoes for a week. It was red raw and puffed up and as big as a 20 cent piece. It had happened as all good blisters do. Having fun.
My husband and I spent a hot summer day, walking the length of an overgrown edge of a channel. Shoulders already turning pink; eyes squinting. Stopping ever so often to kick rocks from our shoes, as we juggled picnic blankets, towels and a basket filled with lunch.
We finally decided on the perfect spot. A screen of soft wilted trees; sparkling clear water lapping at the banks near a grassy clearing to lay. My relieved husband dropped the weight of the basket from his grip.
We then spent the day talking and laughing, kissing and holding hands and swimming. Stealing intimate moments in the warmth of the sun, whenever boats disappeared around the bend.
I will forever remember how warm that sun was on the top of my head, heating the top half of me while the other submerged under the sharp cold snap of the water.
13 years together and we were more in love than ever and although unspoken, deliriously happy knowing a little life was finally growing inside of me.
We were almost 9 weeks pregnant. 9 weeks of feeling life grow inside of me. 9 weeks of picking out names and daydreaming of gender and hair colour, and chubby rolls to kiss. 9 weeks of electricity connecting itself from their little heart to mine.
The sun shone brighter, the love felt bigger.