His expression is wonder mixed with protectiveness. "We're stopping class. You need to rest."
"I'm fine. It's normal. Twenty weeks is when quickening usually happens."
"I don't care. You're resting."
I want to argue, but honestly, I'm overwhelmed. The reality of the pregnancy just became visceral—not just morning sickness and a growing bump and ultrasounds, but actual life moving inside me.
"Class dismissed early today," I announce. "Practice your positions at home. We'll resume tomorrow."
The students leave by 11:30 AM, understanding and excited for me. Several hug me carefully on their way out, congratulating me.
By noon, it's just Maksim and me in the empty studio.
"Sit," he orders, guiding me to the bench near the mirrors.
"I'm pregnant, not fragile."
"You're twenty weeks pregnant and just felt our baby move for the first time. Sit."
I sit. "The ultrasound is this afternoon. Maybe we'll finally know if it's a boy or girl."
"Then we'll know in three hours. Until then, you rest."
The ultrasound appointment is at 3:00 PM at the private medical facility Dr. Volkov uses for all my prenatal care.
Twenty-week anatomy scan—the detailed ultrasound that checks everything. Development, organs, measurements, and yes, gender if we want to know.
We want to know.
Dr. Volkov starts the scan after we're settled. Cold gel on my prominent bump, the wand pressing, searching.
Maksim holds my hand, both of us staring at the screen.
"There," Dr. Volkov says, pointing. "Heartbeat strong. Good size for twenty weeks. Measuring right on schedule."
The image is clearer than the early ultrasounds—we can see features now, the profile, tiny hands, feet. A whole person forming inside me.
"Everything looks excellent," Dr. Volkov continues, moving the wand methodically. "Brain development is normal. Heart chambers all functioning properly. Spine aligned. Kidneys, stomach, bladder—all present and developing well."
"And the gender?" I ask.
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes," Maksim and I say simultaneously.
Dr. Volkov smiles, moves the wand to a specific angle. "See here? Definitely a boy. No ambiguity."
A boy.
Our son.
Relief floods through me first—just one baby, not twins, not the complications I've been secretly fearing. One healthy boy.
Then joy. Pure, overwhelming joy.
Maksim's hand tightens on mine. "A son."
"A son," I repeat, tears starting. "We're having a son."
