The first time I hear it out loud, it’s not from a stranger.
It’s not from the press.
It’s not whispered by a protestor outside a building.
It’s from a doctor.
And it hits harder than anything else ever has.
I’m ten weeks pregnant when the second scan happens.
We already cleared the major genetic panels.
We already breathed.
We already allowed ourselves to believe.
The baby has a heartbeat.
Strong.
Steady.
Alive.
And then—
The technician goes quiet.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s subtle.
A pause that stretches too long.
Marcus feels it instantly.
“Is everything okay?” he asks carefully.
The tech forces a small smile.
“I just need to grab the doctor.”
My pulse spikes.
The room feels smaller.
Marcus’s hand tightens around mine.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
But his voice isn’t
