The Truth

I read it in one of my books: Lie down flat on the floor with your hands at side and you will feel it.
Every day for the past few weeks when I've been alone, I've taken a deep breath and stretched out on the floor. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Sometimes, I think I've felt something. Was that it? Ah, no. That's my heartbeat.
Other times when I think I've felt something, I've remembered what others have told me: It could just be a gas bubble.
Today, just around noon, when the boyfriend was primping in the bathroom, I took to the floor again, put my hands by my side and waited. And waited. And waited.
Was that it? Nope, heartbeat.
Was that it? No, that was the broccoli and cheese quiche I had for breakfast moving around in my tummy.
And then, I felt it.
It was just one little pop.
I screamed, or maybe I yelped.
The boyfriend came running and saw me lying on the bedroom floor with soaking wet hair, wearing nothing but underwear and thought I'd toppled over, fallen, tripped.
"What's wrong?" he said, staring at me, worried that I'd hurt us.
"Nothing," I said and smiled sweetly back at him.
"I just felt the baby move."