The OB’s office was quiet that morning. Too quiet. The walls were soft pink and gentle gray, the air laced with lavender-scented hand sanitizer. I sat on the edge of the exam table, cold paper crinkling beneath me, trying to control the tremble in my legs.
Doc was beside me, fingers interlaced with mine. His grip
was steady, but he kept glancing at the monitor, like he couldn’t wait to see
proof—visual, undeniable—that I was okay. That we both were.
I wasn’t sure I believed it yet.
The ultrasound tech walked in—kind, smiling, professional.
She asked if I was ready, and I nodded even though I wasn’t. She dimmed the
lights and turned the screen toward us as the probe met my belly.
It didn’t take long.
There it was.
A flicker. Rhythmic. Strong.
Heartbeat.
I gasped—softly, but audibly. My hand flew to my mouth. Doc
leaned in, eyes wide, his entire face softening.
“There’s your baby,” the tech said gently. “Right on track.”
And just like that, I fell apart.
Not with loud sobs—just silent tears that slipped down my
cheeks, unchecked. Because I remembered lying in a similar room once, years
ago, hearing another heartbeat. One I thought I had to protect alone. A
heartbeat that anchored me to life when everything else was falling apart.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
This time, Doc kissed my temple and whispered, “You did it,
darling. Look what we made.”
And in that dim, quiet room, I allowed myself to hope.
We waited a week before telling Anthony.
He was playing on the floor in the living room, deeply
involved in a battle between a stuffed owl and a helicopter. His hair was a
wild halo of curls, cheeks flushed with toddler energy.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, kneeling beside him. “Can we talk for
a sec?”
He looked up, curious. “Is the owl in trouble?”
“No,” I smiled. “But someone else is going to need
your help.”
He tilted his head. “Who?”
Doc sat down beside us. “Mama has a baby in her belly.”
Anthony blinked. “A baby? Like a real baby?”
“A real baby,” I said, resting my hand on my stomach. “Your
baby brother or sister.”
He was quiet for a second. Then he scrambled into my lap,
placing both hands on my belly like it was a treasure chest. “Is it a girl?”
“We don’t know yet,” I said. “But they’re in there. Tiny,
and growing.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’m gonna show them how to build
towers. And how to make pancakes with too much syrup.”
Doc chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”
Anthony looked up at me, eyes wide. “Mama, will the baby be
sad sometimes?”
“Maybe,” I said honestly. “But we’ll love them a lot. Just
like we love you.”
He leaned in and kissed my belly, then whispered, “Don’t be
scared, baby. I’ll be here.”
And just like that, the part of my heart I didn’t even know
was still cracked… began to mend.
That night, when Anthony was asleep and the house had gone
still, I curled up next to Doc in bed and let myself exhale.
“You know,” I said, “I didn’t think I could do this again.
Be pregnant. Trust my body. Trust... anyone.”
“I know,” he whispered, brushing hair from my face.
“But watching him today…” I paused, swallowing the lump in
my throat. “Watching you both. I think I might finally believe I’m safe.”
Doc kissed me slowly, his palm resting over our child.
“You’re not just safe, Andy. You’re home.”
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
I believed him.
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