Oh. My. God.
"It's early, but they're both strong," Dr. Byers says, and there's genuine delight in her voice now. "Congratulations, Emma. You're having twins."
The word echoes in my head.
Twins. Poppy's hand goes slack in mine.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at those two tiny, flickering shapes on the screen.
Two.
Not one baby. Two babies.
Two heartbeats. Two lives. Two futures I'm responsible for creating, nurturing, and protecting.
"Are you—" My voice cracks. I have to swallow, try again. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure." Dr. Byers sounds pleased, like she's delivering good news instead of the end of every plan I've made for my life. "See? Two separate gestational sacs, two separate heartbeats. They're fraternal, not identical. And based on the measurements, I'd say you're about eight weeks and three days along."
"I know this might be overwhelming," Dr. Byers continues, still in that cheerful, professional tone. "Especially if you weren't expecting it. But twin pregnancies are more common than people think, and with good prenatal care, the vast majority result in healthy babies."
Healthy babies. Two of them.
I'm going to have two babies.
The panic hits like a wave, stealing my breath. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark, and I'm vaguely aware of Dr. Byers' concerned face swimming into view above me.
"Emma? Emma, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breaths. That's it."
I try to force air into my lungs even though my chest feels like it's being crushed by an elephant. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
It doesn't help.
Because this isn't something I can breathe through. This isn't anxiety or stress or fear that will pass if I just calm down.
This is real.
Two babies. Growing inside me. Right this very minute. Two children who are going to need a mother who has her shit together, who can provide for them, who isn't falling apart in a doctor's office because the scale of this responsibility just doubled.
I can't do this.
The thought rises sharp and clear through the panic. I can't do this. Not alone.
One baby, I might have managed. But two?
Two babies mean double the childcare costs. Double the sleepless nights. Double the time away from work, double the strain on my already limited resources. Two babies mean I'll need a bigger apartment, more money, more help.
More than I can provide by myself.
The dream I've been building for a year, the proof that I can make something of myself without my father's help—it's over.
And I'm going to end up exactly where I swore I'd never be. Dependent on a man. Accepting his money, his help, his resources, until slowly, inevitably, I become a supporting character in my own life.
Just like my mother.
"Emma." Poppy's voice cuts through the spiral, sharp and insistent. "Hey. Look at me."
I force my eyes to focus on her face. She's pale, shocked, but there's steel in her expression. The same look she gets when she's about to go on stage, when she's nervous but determined to perform anyway.
