She nods, but I can see she doesn’t believe me any more than I believe myself.
Dr. Chen squirts gel on Sophia’s swollen belly and presses the ultrasound wand against her skin.
The monitor flickers to life, showing grainy black and white images that mean nothing to me.
I search the screen desperately, looking for something, anything that will tell me our baby is alive.
The room falls silent except for the soft whir of the machine.
Dr. Chen moves the wand, her brow furrowed in concentration.
The silence stretches, becoming oppressive, suffocating.
“I can’t find the heartbeat,” she says quietly.
The words hit me like bullets.
Sophia makes a sound, something between a sob and a gasp, and her hand finds mine again.
I grip it tightly, my own heart hammering so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t show up on the monitor.
“Keep looking,” I demand, my voice sharp. “It has to be there.”
Dr. Chen doesn’t respond, just continues moving the wand across Sophia’s belly.
Each second that passes without the sound of a heartbeat feels like an eternity.
I watch Sophia’s face, see the tears streaming down her cheeks, and I want to rage at the universe for putting us through this.
For making us love something so much only to threaten to take it away.
“Wait.” Dr. Chen leans closer to the monitor, adjusting something. “There.”
A quiet sound fills the room. Fast, rhythmic, beautiful. The baby’s heartbeat.
Relief crashes over me so intensely my knees nearly buckle.
Sophia sobs, but this time it’s with joy mixed with lingering fear.
I lean down and press my forehead against hers, my own eyes burning with tears I refuse to let fall.
“The baby’s position was making it difficult to detect,” Dr. Chen explains, her voice gentle. “But the heartbeat is strong. However, I am seeing some signs of stress. The placenta appears to be partially detached, which is causing the bleeding.”
“What does that mean?” Sophia asks, her voice trembling.
“It means we need to monitor you very closely. The baby is showing signs of distress, but nothing critical at this moment. We’ll need to keep you here for observation, possibly for the remainder of your pregnancy.” Dr. Chen meets my gaze. “I won’t lie to you. This is serious. But right now, both mother and baby are stable.”
Stable. The word should comfort me, but it doesn’t. Stable isn’t safe. Stable isn’t guaranteed.
After Dr. Chen leaves to arrange for Sophia’s admission, I sink into the chair beside her bed.
My hands are still shaking, and I press them against my thighs to hide it.
I’m supposed to be strong.
I’m supposed to be the one who protects her from everything, including fear.
But I’m terrified.
