“All right,” the doctor says gently. “Let’s see how your little one’s doing.”
Samuil’s hand finally finds mine, warm and firm.
We wait for a moment with bated breath before a fast, rhythmic thumping fills the room. The steadythump, thumpmakes my pulse spike. The world narrows to that single sound. My baby.Ourbaby.
I cover my mouth with my free hand, tears springing up instantly. I can’t help it. I can’t stop them. The heartbeat is so strong and clear, it knocks the breath right out of me.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
Samuil makes a choked noise, and I try to examine his face, but he’s leaning so close to the monitor that it’s hard for me to see. He’s completely tuned in to the image on the screen.
“That’s our baby,” he says, voice thick.
My heart leaps again. He is so genuinely happy, and I’m not sure how to process that after being so worried he’d reject it. He looks like his whole world has been turned upside down in the best possible way.
He hangs onto our doctor’s every word as she talks through measurements, target dates, and next steps. I hear pieces of it, but most of me is locked on Samuil’s face, the awe there, the softness, the unguarded hope.
When the doctor steps out to let me clean up, the room feels strange and quiet. Samuil doesn’t move at first. He just sits next to me, still processing what we’ve just witnessed. When he does look at me, there’s such a big, goofy grin on his face that I can’t help but laugh.
No one has ever looked at me like that in my life. He leans down to kiss me, and I let him, because that’s easier than talking. I can at least pretend to know what I’m doing when my lips are against his. The feelings part is much harder to navigate.
“That was really something, huh?” he asks in amazement.
I nod, even though my throat is tight. “It really was,” I manage, not sure what else to say.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that,” he says quietly. “I felt like my heart was going to explode out of my chest.”
My chest tightens so sharply I have to steady myself. He looks at me like I’ve given him something he didn’t know he was missing. Something he’s terrified to lose.
When we walk out into the hallway, he rests a hand on the small of my back. I lean into it without thinking.
He stops at the exit. “We’re not going home yet.”
I blink at him. “We’re not?”
He gives me a look that’s almost shy, even though nothing about Samuil is shy.
“There’s something I want to get,” he says mysteriously.
We walk across the street to a little boutique filled with baby blankets and knitted toys. I don’t know why, but the second we step inside, I feel like the floodgates have opened. It takes everything in me not to burst into tears.
“We should pick out a gift for our baby,” he says softly. “We could do this after every appointment, like a little ritual. Then, when he or she gets older, we can tell them, ‘We got this when we heard your heartbeat. We picked this out when we found out you were a boy or girl.’ Or is that too cheesy?”
He grimaces, like he’s just revealed more of himself than he meant to. I grab his hand and squeeze, because it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I love that idea,” I tell him, and I mean it.
I walk slowly through the store, fingers brushing tiny hats and soft plush animals. There’s a knitted cream-colored hat with two little ears. I stop in front of it without meaning to. Something about the simplicity of it pulls at me.
“You like that one?” Samuil asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Me too.” He nods.
He takes it off the hook and brings it to the register, paying before I can reach for my wallet.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting my cheeks. I hold the little hat in both hands, staring at it. It’s so unbelievably tiny, and in eight or so months, there will be a baby to wear it. How can anything so tiny and delicate even exist? How can I protect it?
