My heart pounds.
Please, I think.
Please let everything be okay.
Please let me have this one thing.
And then I see it.
A tiny shape.
A flutter of movement.
A heartbeat pulsing steady and strong.
"There we go," the tech says. "There's your baby."
Garrett's hand tightens on mine.
When I look at him, there are tears streaming down his face.
This man—this tough, stoic, leather-clad biker who's survived things that would break most people—is crying at the sight of our baby on a screen.
"That's our kid," he whispers. "Van, that's our kid."
I can't speak.
Can only stare at the screen, at this tiny life growing inside me.
Proof that something good can come from all the bad.
Proof that I'm more than my worst mistakes.
Proof that my body, which I poisoned for so many years, is capable of creating something beautiful.
"Everything looks great," the tech continues. "Good heartbeat. Strong and steady. Measuring right on track. You're about fourteen weeks now."
Fourteen weeks.
Three and a half months of this baby growing while I fought my way back to life.
Three and a half months of cells dividing and forming, tiny fingers and toes taking shape, a heart learning to beat.
All of it happening inside me, while I was learning to live again.
"Can we get a picture?" I ask, my voice thick.
"Of course."
She prints out a grainy black-and-white image and hands it to me.
I hold it like it's made of glass, staring at the small blob that will someday be a person.
My person.
Ourperson.
Garrett wraps his arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to my temple.
