When Dr. Kaplan’s attention returns to me, I slide the note across the counter, careful and discreet, like we’re sharing secrets.
She unfolds it without a word.
I may be pregnant and need confirmation. Could you recommend an OBGYN?
Her expression remains steady, not a flicker of surprise. She folds the note once, grabs her pen, and jots something down quickly, shielding it with her hand before sliding it back to me.
I can order blood work now and have it done today if you’d like. Do you have a plan? We’re a family practice here, and I could book you an appointment.
I read it twice, relief and dread intertwining, uninvited yet inseparable. I nod, small and contained. “Yes,” I say quietly. “That would be… helpful.”
“Good,” she replies, already typing. “We’ll take care of that.”
No questions, no assumptions; she simply adjusts the plan to fit the reality I haven’t voiced yet. Professional, humane—exactly what I need.
The appointment wraps up efficiently. A nurse asks Lucy to pick out some stickers while my blood is drawn. An orthopedic referral is printed, and instructions for an online portal are handed to me for both Lucy and myself.
“Are you sick, Hildy?” Lucy hops down from the table, sticker proudly displayed on her shirt, reaching for my hand to comfort me.
“I’m not sick; sometimes they just need to test our blood to make sure everything is good.” I smile, reassuring her as the needle pricks my skin.
“Did it hurt?” she frowns, concern knitting her brow.
“Just a little pinch and then not even a bit,” I assure her honestly.
“Can we get lunch before we go to work?”
“Absolutely,” I reply without hesitation. “We definitely can.” Dr. Kaplan offers a smile that feels genuine, reaching us both. “I’ll see you again soon.” Her words are directed at Lucy, but Isense they hold a deeper meaning for me as well. With deliberate care, I slide the folded note back into my bag, handling it as if it were made of glass, delicate and precious. As we step outside, I whisper a reminder to myself: one step at a time. That’s the way to navigate this maze. That’s how we’ll manage it all.
By the time we make it to the museum café, it’sjust after 11:00 a.m.
I note it automatically. That gives us time. Not rushing time, but enough to eat and still wander before I have to shift gears and be somewhere else entirely. I don’t need to be at work until one, I’m covering until five, so Preya can head out of town for the night.
That’s why I chose theAmerican Museum of Natural History.
The café is designed for families who need a pause, and Lucy is excited about the building with big bones and shiny rocks. It’s bright but not harsh. Busy enough that no one notices the little girl with the bruise that is fading nicely, the abrasions from shattered glass, or casted arm. So, no one will stare and make her feel uncomfortable.
Lucy presses her nose to the glass case, eyes scanning the options. “So many snacks.”
“All on display,” I reply. “That’s how you know it’s a museum café.”
She nods, not noting that I was being playful. Clearly, I need to show that side more often, and not … whatever I’m putting out there.
I scan quickly. Pre-made sandwiches. Soup. Fruit cups. Nothing that requires negotiation later.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“The circle sandwich,” she says, pointing.
Good. Turkey and cheese on wheat. Halved. Wrapped. Reliable.
I order quickly. One kid sandwich. One soup for me. Two waters. I swipe my card, pocket the receipt without checking it, and guide us to a small table near the windows.
Lucy climbs into her chair and attempts to unwrap her sandwich. “Let me.”
She nods, but scowls down at is with obvious frustration.
I hand it back unwrapped. “It won’t be long before you can do it all by yourself.”
