Hope.
Maybe all I needed was to make love to the woman I love. And have her want me to be her baby’s father.
And she did.
THIRTY-EIGHT
NOELLE
Today is the day.
By the time we sit in the exam room for my twenty-week appointment, I already feel like we’ve crossed into a new season of our lives.
Matt is different lately. Not cured. Not magically healed. Just lighter and living in the moment. He jokes with the nurse, holds my hand without the scowl. He still has dialysis three times a week. His creatinine and potassium levels are stubborn, refusing to fall in line no matter how clean they scrub his blood. But he’s stopped acting like every conversation is a countdown.
And that’s a win. A huge win.
Our doctor moves efficiently, her voice calm and reassuring as she explains what she’s seeing on the screen. I watch Matt’s face more than the monitor. The way his eyes track every movement. The way his thumb rubs slow circles over my knuckles like he’s grounding himself.
I officially added Matt as the father on the paperwork, so this is now our baby, and he’s prouder and more investedthan he is when the Armadillos win and their “Broken Play” works even when the opposing teams know it’s in their bag of tricks.
These ultrasounds are amazing—3D and color. The doctor follows our baby from all directions and presses until she gets the shot she needs.
She looks at it from different directions and says, “Are you sure you want to know?”
Matt squeezes my hand and peers into my eyes. We nod. “Yes.”
Here comes the moment I’ve been waiting for.
“It’s a boy,” she says.
Something inside me bursts open. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Matt exhales a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief. His eyes shine as he stares at the screen like he’s memorizing every little curve of our baby boy’s body.
“A boy,” he repeats softly.
I squeeze his hand, overwhelmed by how right it feels.
Afterward, we go straight to a baby décor store because apparently that’s what you do when the universe hands you confirmation that joy still exists. We wander aisles filled with tiny clothes, cribs, and impossibly small socks. Matt picks up a ridiculous football-themed onesie and holds it up.
“I can’t wait to tell your brothers,” he says, grinning. “Finally, a baby boy in the family.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “They’re going to hate you.”
“They already do,” he says cheerfully.
On the drive home, we talk about Oklahoma City—the Armadillos absolutely dismantling them on the field. A bloodbath.
“I hope the network doesn’t think I did anything wrong,” I admit. “I mean, I reported fairly.”
“We beat them last year too,” Matt says. “Twice. It’s not a scandal. It’s a pattern.”
That steadiness again. The man who sees the big picture even when his body is fighting him.
“How is J.D. with you taking off half days three times a week?” I ask. “It’s been over three months now.”
He shrugs. “Winning is everything to J.D. As long as we’re winning and I’m doing my job—which I am—he’s fine.”
