The next night I decided to fill Tony in on our predicament.  We lay in my bed, exhausted and happy.  Although I’d braced myself for the worst, for some reason I was giddy.  I groped in the darkness for his face and made sure he was looking my direction.

“Tony,” I said, “we’re going to have a child.”

“Por supuesto,” he said.  “We will have many children.  We will own a ranch and—”

“No, listen.  I’m pregnant.”

He was quiet for a long time.  I kept waiting for my head to thump against the mattress as he fled from the room, the house, my life, absconding into the murky South Texas night.  But he didn’t go anywhere.  Instead, he pulled me toward him and kissed my lips and cheeks, forehead and chin.

“Yes,” he said.  “A child.”

Tears of joy trickled from my eyes, and Tony kissed them dry.

“But first, we marry.”

I hugged him as if clinging on for dear life.  “Mamá will be so happy!” I said.  “But what about José?”

Tony held me in the darkness, caressing my hair.  Then he laced his fingers with mine and said, “Hold my hand, querida, and we’re halfway there.”