“Right,” I say.
She turns to go back to the room. To her books and colors.
“Mila, keep your things in place,” I say after her, keeping my voice easy, like nothing in this room has shifted.
She nods and does exactly that. She draws a careful red line around the picture, closing it like a fence, then shuts the book and sets it neatly on the table.
We leave an hour later, and Dominik drives without asking. The street is wet from the earlier rain, so he keeps the car steady and slow, braking early and taking the turns wide.
I sit in the back with Mila against me, her body warm and solid in my arms. She tucks her head under my chin, and I hold her there.
I don’t notice I was holding my breath until I finally let it out.
Inside the clinic, the lights are bright, and everything is moving at once. People walk past us, doors keep opening and closing, and voices overlap until it starts to feel like too much. The nurse at the desk looks up and knows who we are, and that hits me harder than I expect. She smiles at Mila and asks how she’s feeling today. Mila buries her face in my shoulder and clings tighter.
“She’s better,” I say. “But she still feels warm at night.”
The nurse nods, types for a moment, then prints the forms and slides them across the counter. Dominik takes them before I do and signs where he needs to, one page after another, his handwriting clean and steady. I catch the nurse looking at him for a second too long before she looks back at the screen.
They take us down the hall to a smaller room. There are no posters in this one, just a desk, two chairs, and a sink in the corner. The doctor comes in a minute later and shuts the door behind him.
“I want to talk through the results from yesterday,” he says. He looks at Mila, then back to me. “Nothing concerning so far. There is one thing I’d like to double-check.”
My back straightens. “What is it?”
“The marker in Mila’s blood,” he says. “Sometimes, it runs in families. We usually confirm that by checking a close blood relative. When that’s the case, it’s usually harmless.”
The fluorescent light seems too bright. The words on the page don’t move, but everything in me does. Dominik stays still. He leans back in his chair, one arm resting along the back of Mila’s seat, close enough that his fingers touch her hair. “What do you need to confirm it?”
“A comparison sample,” the doctor says. “From a parent.”
“No,” I say too fast. “That won’t be necessary.”
The doctor looks at me instead of answering right away. His face stays neutral, but his attention stills. “Can you tell me why?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bloodwork.” I say, pushing the words out before I can slow them down. “You can look at my records from when I was pregnant. Everything was normal.”
He nods once, then shifts his gaze to Dominik. “And the father?”
Dominik doesn’t answer immediately. He adjusts his chair closer to Mila and rests his hand on the back of it. His voice stays level when he speaks.
“I’m fine with a blood test,” he says. “If it helps her, you can take it.”
Then he looks at me. There’s no warning in his expression and no softness, either. He isn’t asking.
“Anything for Mila,” he adds, and his thumb strokes once through her hair.
The doctor watches us without comment, already reaching for the chart.
I lean back in the chair, my hands in my lap. Mila watches while the nurse wheels in the tray. Dominik doesn’t look at the needle. He keeps his eyes on Mila and talks to her instead, asking about the picture she’s coloring and whether she kept the sword beside her bed. She answers him seriously, caught up in it enough that she barely notices when the nurse takes his arm.
It’s finished in seconds. Faster than I expect, faster than I want. The nurse presses a strip of gauze in place and moves on like this is routine, because for her it is. She labels the samples carefully, one vial after another. I see the names printed in black, lined up side by side, before she turns the tray away.
Dominik steps out with the doctor for a moment and tells me to wait near the front desk.
Mila runs out of patience fast. She frowns and tells me the lights hurt her eyes and that she wants to go home. Her voice gets louder with each sentence, not crying yet. She’s seeing what works.
I take her to the window. Outside, a boy rides past on a small blue bicycle, his feet pumping so fast, they blur. Mila puts both hands on the glass and watches him like he is a miracle.
