Jennifer stood frozen in the bathroom, staring at the little plastic stick in her hand. Two bold pink lines glared back at her. Two lines. She had read the instructions a hundred times. One line: not pregnant. Two lines: very pregnant.

"James?" she called, her voice wobbling between excitement and sheer panic.

James, who had been pacing outside, stopped short as his wife opened the bathroom door. "Yeah? What’s the verdict? One line? Two? A cryptic hieroglyph?"

Jennifer turned the test toward him, biting her lip. "There are two lines…"

James blinked. "Okay, but like is that good? Bad? Does it mean the test is broken? Should we try another one? Wait, does it mean twins?!"

Jennifer burst out laughing. "No, you goof! Two lines means positive! We are pregnant, love!"

James’s face went through approximately twelve emotions in three seconds. Shock, joy, terror, and finally, pure delight. He scooped her up in a hug, nearly knocking over the shampoo rack. "We’re gonna be parents! Oh man, I hope the kid gets your sense of direction and not mine. And your patience. And your…"

Jennifer grinned. "At this rate, the kid’s just getting your ability to ramble when he or she gets nervous."

James kissed her forehead. "Fair. But hey, two lines! Best two lines I’ve ever seen."

And just like that, their next big adventure began, with a little plastic stick and a whole lot of love.

* * *

Later that evening, James and Jennifer sat at the kitchen table, the initial excitement of the pregnancy test now giving way to the practical realities of parenthood. Spread between them were bills, budget printouts, and a half-eaten tub of ice cream, because some things were non-negotiable.

"So," Jennifer said, tapping her pen against the table, "we need to talk logistics. Daycare in this city costs more than my student loans."

James winced. "Yeah, and the waitlists are longer than the lines for early entry at Magic Kingdom."

Jennifer smirked. "Exactly. Which is why…" she hesitated for a moment, shifting to a more serious, almost cautious tone, before plowing ahead. "Which is why I think it makes the most sense for you to be the primary caregiver."

James blinked. "Oh."

"I mean," Jennifer continued, "you work remotely as a freelance graphic designer with flexible hours. My marketing director job? Not so much. Plus, the overseas travel, and the insane three-year roadmap they just announced last week…"

James held up a hand. "Hey hey, I know, Jen, I know. You don’t have to justify it. I’ve been mentally preparing for this ever since you handed me that pee stick like it was a subpoena." He grinned. "I’m in. Diaper duty, midnight feedings, the whole deal."

Jennifer exhaled in relief. "Thank you. I was worried you’d—"

"—be secretly thrilled because I get to wear sweatpants 24/7 and call it ‘parenting chic’? Absolutely."

She laughed, but then her expression turned thoughtful. "There is one thing I’ve been stressing about, though. Breastfeeding."

James nodded. "Right. The liquid gold."

"I want what’s best for the baby, but my job’s not exactly pumping-friendly—pun definitely intended."

James stroked his chin dramatically. "Hmm. Well, I do have the more flexible schedule…"

Jennifer snorted. "Oh my God, are you volunteering to breastfeed?"

"I mean, if science would just hurry up and make male lactation a thing, I’d be first in line!" He flexed his pecs. "These bad boys could totally produce gourmet organic."

Jennifer wheezed with laughter. "I’ll put in a request with the universe. Until then, formula it is."

James reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Hey. However we do this, we’re a team. Even if my contributions are… tragically non-nutritive."

Jennifer smiled. "Team James and Jen. Now with 50% more drool."

And just like that, the scariest conversation felt a little lighter, because when life handed them a baby, they’d always choose laughter over panic.

Well. Most of the time.

* * *

A week later, Jennifer was curled up on the couch, scrolling through a list of What to Expect When You're Expecting horror stories when James plopped down beside her with the air of a man who had just uncovered the secrets of the universe.

"So," he began, in that tone that usually preceded either a brilliant idea or a household disaster, "remember that joke I made about male lactation?"

Jennifer eyed him. "The one where you promised gourmet organic milk from your ‘bad boys’?" She poked his chest. "Vividly."

James took a deep breath. "Turns out… it’s not entirely a joke."

Jennifer’s phone slipped onto the couch. "Excuse me?"

"I did some research," James said, pulling up an article on his phone with the enthusiasm of a TED Talk presenter. "Male lactation is technically possible. It’s rare, but it happens—usually with hormonal stimulation, consistent nipple stimulation, and"

Jennifer held up a hand. "Wait. Nipple stimulation???"

James nodded solemnly. "It’s a commitment. But think about it. We both agreed breastfeeding is ideal for the baby, and if I can do it, you wouldn’t have to stress about pumping at work or"

Jennifer’s brain short-circuited. On one hand, she admired his dedication. On the other, the mental image of James hooked up to a breast pump while watching Die Hard was… a lot.

"James," she said carefully, "I love that you’re this invested. But… you want to, what, take hormones and… lactate?!"

He shrugged. "I mean, if it works? Yeah. I’d try."

Jennifer stared at him. This was the man who once forgot to put milk back in the fridge for three days. The man who cried during dog food commercials. And now he was volunteering to breastfeed.

She took a slow breath. "I need… time to process this."

James immediately backtracked. "Totally fair. No pressure. Just thought I’d put it out there." He grinned. "Worst-case scenario, I get really good at making bottles."

Jennifer couldn’t help but laugh. "You’re ridiculous. And kind of amazing."

James kissed her forehead. "That’s why you married me."

As he wandered off to "do more research" (read: fall into a Wikipedia/googling hole), Jennifer shook her head, equal parts baffled and touched.

Parenthood was going to be weird.

But with James? Never boring.

* * *

Jennifer’s laptop glowed in the dark bedroom, casting long shadows as she scrolled through yet another article titled Breastmilk vs. Formula: The Immune System Benefits. Every bullet point about antibodies, cognitive development, and reduced allergy risks felt like a tiny stab of guilt.

"Many working mothers successfully balance breastfeeding with demanding careers," one article chirped brightly, accompanied by a stock photo of a smiling woman in a blazer, pumping in what appeared to be a spotless, sunlit office. Jennifer glared at the screen. Where was the photo of the mom hiding in a bathroom stall with a hand pump, praying no one walked in?

James snored softly beside her, one arm flung over his face like a man who had not just volunteered to lactate for science. Meanwhile, Jennifer’s brain raced.

Could she make it work? Her job as marketing director wasn’t just demanding. It was relentless. Quarterly flights to headquarters. Late-night strategy calls with Singapore. The upcoming product launch that would eat her life for the next six months. And even if she could pump between meetings, would it be enough? Would she sleep? Would her milk even come in properly if she was this stressed?

She clicked over to a forum thread titled Working Moms Who Exclusively Pumped - Tell Me Your Secrets. The top comment read: "It’s hell, but worth it."

Jennifer groaned and rubbed her temples.

On one hand: the biological ideal, the bonding, the smug satisfaction of doing what "nature intended." On the other: her sanity. Her career. The very real possibility of turning into a sleep-deprived, milk-stained goblin who cried during PowerPoint presentations.

A new tab caught her eye. Induced Lactation in Men: Risks and Realities. She’d clicked it as a joke at first, but now the words blurred together: hormone therapy. prolactin, gynaecomastia, chemical castration.

James shifted beside her, mumbling something about “optimizing the diaper-changing workflow.” Jennifer stared at his peaceful, clueless face. This man had seriously researched growing functioning milk ducts for their baby. And the side effects read like a bad pharmacy commercial: “May cause mood swings, weight gain, and loss of sex drive.”

She snapped the laptop shut harder than intended. James snorted awake.

"Mmrf. You okay?" he slurred, squinting at her.

Jennifer exhaled. "Just realizing our baby is going to have either a stressed-out, milk-deficient mom or a hormonally unbalanced, possibly-chest-enhanced husband. Fantastic options."

James blinked. "Hey. No. We have normal options too. Like formula. Which is fine. Like, Nobel Prize winners drank formula."

"But…"

"But nothing." He sat up, suddenly awake. "Look, I threw out the male lactation thing because I wanted you to know I’d move mountains for this kid. But not if it means you’re sitting here at 2 AM convincing yourself that not breastfeeding makes you a bad mom. That’s bullshit."

Jennifer’s throat tightened. "What if I want to breastfeed, but my job literally won’t let me? What if I’m choosing money over"

"Over what?" James interrupted. "Over some imaginary gold star? Jen, our kid is going to be fine. They’re going to be loved. And also, between the two of us, they’ll definitely inherit my ability to fall asleep anywhere, so really, we’re already winning."

A laugh burst out of her, wet and unexpected. James grinned and pulled her down onto the pillows.

"Sleep," he ordered. "Tomorrow we’ll panic about something else. Like how we’re supposed to assemble a crib without divorcing."

As Jennifer finally let her eyes close, the guilt didn’t vanish—but it shrank just enough to make room for a new thought:

Maybe the best parents aren’t the ones who follow the script. Maybe it’s the ones who are willing to rewrite it. (Even if the rewrite involved questionable hormone regimens and a husband who’d probably try to trademark "Dad Milk" if given half a chance.)