Lucy is hunched over a sheet of paper, pencil clenched like it owes her money. Geoff’s chair is turned towards her, one knee angled in, forearms resting loosely on the table. Close without crowding. Present without hovering.
She scribbles. Stops. Glares.
“That’s wrong.”
Geoff leans in slightly, studies it. “It’s different,” he says. “Different isn’t the same as wrong.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “It looks bad.”
He shrugs. “So did my handwriting until I was about twelve.”
That earns him a snort. She tries again.
He doesn’t reach for the pencil. Doesn’t correct her grip. Just waits.
I notice the quiet things. His voice stays even. His foot doesn’t bounce. His hands stay still unless she asks for help.
“There,” Lucy says finally, triumphant.
He nods. “There.”
She launches herself at him. He catches her easily, one arm around her back, the other lifting just enough to keep the pencil from becoming a weapon.
I look away a fraction too late.
Pea-Lime kicks.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Absolutely not.”
Geoff glances up. “All good?”
“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Educational.”
Geoff’s mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he lets it go and turns back to Lucy. Sensible man. Self-preserving instincts intact.
I shift and press a hand to my stomach, partly to still Pea-Lime, partly to remind myself I am not allowed to spiral because a man used a calm voice and appropriate pencil supervision.
Week nineteen, I think. Not four and a half months. Not nearly halfway. Week nineteen, because Geoff read approximately seventeen books, three forums, and at least one unhinged blog written by a woman who refers toherself as MamaBear77 and now refuses to use months like a normal person.
Yesterday is still sitting in my bones.
The hospital had smelled like disinfectant and sickness, and I remember crossing my arms while Geoff hovered, offering my coat, my bag, my water bottle, my dignity.
“I’m fine,” I’d told him for the third time.
“I know,” he’d said. “I just thought you might want to sit.”
“I am sitting.”
“Right. Yes. Just checking.”
The sonographer had smiled that calm, seen-it-all smile while I’d lain there feeling like a science project, and Geoff had gone very quiet, which is what he does when he’s trying not to fuss. It never works.
“There,” she’d said, tapping the screen. “Any guesses?”
Geoff had leaned in like the answer might flee. I’d squinted, unimpressed.
“If you say boy, I will leave,” I’d warned him, mostly joking, entirely serious.
