“And you must be Dad.” She shifts her smile to Jake and offers her hand.
“Jake Reyes,” he says, shaking it. Lawyer charm activated.
“Nice to meet you both.” She pulls up a little stool and taps on her tablet. “Looks like you’re about fourteen weeks now. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I say. “Hungry.”
“That tracks.” She smiles. “Energy levels?”
“Totally normal.”
“Excellent.” More tapping. “Any bleeding? Cramping? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nope.”
“Great. And you’re taking prenatal vitamins?”
“Every day.” I flick a glance at Jake. I have him and his grocery delivery to thank for that.
“Perfect.” She stands, rolling the ultrasound machine a little closer. “All right, let’s take a look and see how baby’s doing. We’ll get some measurements and make sure everything’s on track.”
My heart rate kicks up so fast I’m pretty sure she can see my pulse in my neck. Jake gets up, hovering, clearly uncertain where he’s supposed to be. Dr. Nelson glances up and nods toward me.
“You can stand next to her,” she says. “Most dads like to watch the screen.”
He moves to my side, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the gown. His arm is right there if I need to grab onto something.
“This is going to be cold,” Dr. Nelson warns as she squirts gel onto my stomach.
She’s not exaggerating. I flinch when the wand hits my skin, teeth almost chattering from the unexpected chill. Then the monitor flickers on.
And there it is.
My baby.
There’s a clear curve of a head, a spine like a string of tiny pearls, little limbs moving. Arms. Legs. A profile that looks like something you’d recognize if you saw it again.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. That’s a person. A tiny, impossible person who’s been growing inside me this whole time while I taught yoga classes and rewrote scripts and pretended everything was normal.
My throat goes tight. I want to reach out and touch the screen, trace the outline of that perfect little head, but my hands are frozen at my sides. There’s this overwhelming surge of something I can’t name. Protectiveness, maybe. Or terror. Or both at once, fighting for dominance in my chest.
This is real, moving, living proof that in a few months, I’m going to be responsible for another human being.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“There we go,” Dr. Nelson says, adjusting the angle. “Baby is measuring right on track for fourteen weeks.”
She clicks a few buttons. The image sharpens, and I swear I see a hand flicker near its face like an accidental wave.
“Let’s get that heartbeat,” she says.
She moves the wand, and then the room fills with sound. Fast, steady, impossibly loud for something so small.
Whooshwhoosh whoosh whoosh.
“That’s the baby’s heartbeat,” she says. “Nice and strong. About one-fifty beats per minute. That’s exactly what we like to hear at this stage.”
I can’t look away from the screen. The baby moves again, a little twist, a flex of tiny arms. It’s so small and yet so very clearly there. Not theoretical. Not maybe someday. Right now.
