My own heart seems to stop.
On the screen, Dr. Martelle points to a small oval shape, and inside it, I can see movement. A flicker. Rapid and steady and undeniably real.
That's my child. Half my DNA, half Emma's, growing into a person with thoughts and dreams and a future I can't even imagine yet.
"Strong and steady," Dr. Martelle continues, checking measurements on the screen. "Right where we want to be at nine-and-a-half weeks."
Emma makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob. Her eyes are locked on the screen, tears starting to track down her temples.
"And now let's find baby number two," Dr. Martelle says, moving the wand slightly.
More shapes. More shadows. Then?—
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
A second heartbeat, as fast and strong as the first.
"There they are," Dr. Martelle says, clearly pleased. She points to another oval on the screen, slightly to the left of the first. "Two strong heartbeats. Both measuring right on track."
I stare at the screen, and now I can make sense of what I'm seeing. Two separate sacs. Two flickering movements. Two impossibly fast heartbeats filling the quiet room.
Something cracks open in me—something I didn't even know was locked away. All the careful control I've maintained for the past week, all the measured responses and practical solutionsand attempts to be supportive without being overwhelming—it all shatters in the face of those two tiny, pulsing shapes.
These babies are mine, and they're depending on me to protect them. To be better than I was with Samantha. To show up fully and completely with my time and my attention.
"Grant?" Emma's voice is thick with tears. "Are you okay?"
I haven't cried since the divorce was finalized and I realized how completely I'd failed my marriage. How thoroughly I'd let work consume me until there was nothing left to give Victoria or Samantha.
But looking at those two heartbeats, knowing they're tiny humans who will one day call me dad, who will need me in ways that have nothing to do with money?—
I'm not okay. I'm the opposite of okay.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. "I'm—yeah."
Dr. Martelle walks us through the images, pointing out measurements that mean nothing to me but apparently indicate healthy development. She prints out photos, multiple copies, and promises to send the full report to Emma's patient portal.
I barely hear any of it. I can't stop thinking about what’s to come.
"All right, Emma" Dr. Martelle says, wrapping up the appointment. “I want to see you back in two weeks, and we'll keep monitoring you closely since this is a twin pregnancy. Any questions?"
Emma shakes her head, still crying. Happy tears, I think. Or maybe overwhelmed tears. Maybe both.
"How about you, Grant? Any questions?"
I have a thousand questions. What happens if there are complications? What if something goes wrong? What if I fail these children the way I failed Samantha? What if I let Emma down when she needs me most?
But what comes out is, "How do I keep them safe?"
Dr. Martelle's expression softens. "You're already doing it. Being here, being supportive, making sure Emma has good prenatal care—that's exactly what these babies need right now. Keep doing that, and they'll be just fine."
It should be reassuring. It's not. Because being here, being supportive—that's the bare minimum. That's what I did with Victoria, and it wasn't enough. She needed more. And so did Samantha.
Emma and these babies deserve more.
Dr. Martelle leaves us alone to let Emma get dressed, and I move to the window, staring out at the parking lot below.
I hear the rustle of paper as Emma climbs down from the table, the soft sound of fabric as she pulls on her jeans. When I turn around, she's tucking her shirt in, her face still streaked with tears.
