But week after week, our baby kept growing.
Twelve weeks.
Sixteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-four.
Doctors seemed almost surprised by how well I was doing.
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I felt strong.
I continued exercising carefully.
I ate well.
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And for the first time since Molly’s death, I allowed myself to imagine the future.
Then came the appointment that changed everything.
It was supposed to be routine.
Daniel sat beside me while the ultrasound technician moved the probe across my stomach.
“There’s your little guy,” she said.
Our son appeared on the monitor.
I laughed as he kicked.
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Daniel leaned closer.
“He already has your stubbornness.”
The technician smiled.
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Then suddenly, she stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
She moved the probe again.
Her smile disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The baby looks fine.”
But she kept staring at the screen.
I felt my heart begin to pound.
“What are you looking at?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she said, “I’m going to get the doctor.”
Then she walked out.
Daniel grabbed my hand.
A few minutes later, my doctor came in.
He looked at the ultrasound.
Then at me.
Then back at the screen.
Finally, he turned toward Daniel.
“Could you step outside for a moment?”
“No,” I said immediately.
