For the rest of the appointment, Dr. Shah acted as though nothing strange had happened. She measured the baby, noted that growth was on track, printed three glossy images, and spoke to Adrian in the calm, reassuring tone doctors use when everything is supposedly fine. By the time we reached the parking garage, he was talking about nursery paint colors and whether we should finally tell his parents the baby was a girl. I answered when I had to, but my mind stayed trapped in that room. Divorce your husband. Don’t tell him I said that.
For the rest of the appointment, Dr. Shah acted as though nothing strange had happened. She measured the baby, noted that growth was on track, printed three glossy images, and spoke to Adrian in the calm, reassuring tone doctors use when everything is supposedly fine. By the time we reached the parking garage, he was talking about nursery paint colors and whether we should finally tell his parents the baby was a girl. I answered when I had to, but my mind stayed trapped in that room. Divorce your husband. Don’t tell him I said that.
At a red light, Adrian looked over at me. “You’re quiet,” he said. “Did the doctor say anything when I stepped out?” His tone was gentle, but there was an edge under it, the kind that made a simple question feel like a test. I forced a smile and said she had only warned me about swelling and stress. He held my gaze for a beat too long, then nodded and turned back to the road. When we got home, he insisted I go upstairs and lie down while he made dinner. Twenty minutes later, he came in carrying soup on a tray and my phone in his other hand. “Claire called,” he said, naming my older sister. “I didn’t answer. You don’t need her upsetting you.”
