“I know,” I say, kissing her hand anyway. It steadies me more than it should.
She lies back on the table, shirt rolled up, gel spread over her stomach. Her eyes are bright, fixed on the monitor. I squeeze her hand and force myself to look too.
The technician moves the wand, humming under her breath. The screen flickers—static, shadows, shapes that never make sense to me until suddenly they do.
A flicker of movement.
There they are.
My chest clenches hard. Every time I see that tiny shift of life, it hits like a punch I never brace for.
“There we are,” the technician says. “Baby’s active today. Feeling that, mama?”
“Yeah. I feel him.” Beatrice’s voice is soft, full, already gone.
I look at her. Tears are building, not falling yet, and she’s biting her lip like she’s holding herself together. The way she looks at that screen knocks something loose inside me.
“You think it’s a him today?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says immediately. “I look prettier today. And they say boys make you more beautiful.”
I roll my eyes. “Amore, you’re beautiful every day.”
She changes the baby’s sex depending on her mood. For three days it was a girl. Today it’s a boy—my son.
“Okay, let’s have a listen now,” the technician says, pressing buttons. “Do you want to know the gender?”
I look at my wife. “Bella?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t get many good surprises in life. We can wait.”
I nod. “We wait.”
The technician adjusts the machine. “Let’s find that heartbeat.”
This part always hits me the hardest. Too many stories. Too many things that can go wrong. Beatrice tells me to stop reading, but knowledge is the only weapon I have when I can’t protect them physically.
The silence drags.
A second too long.Then another.
My spine goes rigid.
I’m seconds from demanding answers when it finally hits—the rapid, fierce thrum of a tiny heart fighting its way through the speakers.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Beatrice gasps. “Our baby.”
Her hand tightens in mine. I squeeze back. Relief hits so fast it nearly takes my breath.
I study the screen—ten toes, ten fingers, a small hand drifting, then?—
“He’s sucking his thumb,” I say, a low laugh breaking out before I can stop it. “Didn’t know they did that this early.”
The technician smiles. “They do. They burp, hiccup, stretch… some even dance. Mama, those little flutters you feel? That’s your active one in there.”
“So smart already,”I say, watching the screen like it’s a tactical briefing I can’t afford to miss. “And size-wise? How’s the baby?”
