She tapped her pen on the table, her face tightening with a resentment she tried to hide behind her tea mug.
“He has a legal obligation, Rachel, whether he wants to admit it or not.”
“I do not want his money if it comes with his anger,” I said.
“It is not about what you want anymore,” Sarah said, looking at her pad. “It is about what she needs.”
We sat in the examination room at Dr. Marcus’s clinic at four.
The smell of institutional floor wax was thick, masking the summer heat.
The cold blue gel on my stomach made me shiver, but the steady, rhythmic gallop of the fetal monitor soon filled the small room.
Dr. Marcus tilted his head and checked his watch, his slow, baritone voice cutting through the hum of the machine.
“She is growing exactly on schedule, Rachel.”
“But given your blood pressure, we are not going to let you go to your full term.”
He wiped the gel from my skin and handed me a thick paper towel.
“We are scheduling a C-section for October twelfth,” Dr. Marcus said.
The date landed like a heavy stone in the quiet room.
“We have a date now, and that makes it real,” I said.
“It also means we have a deadline,” Sarah said from the corner chair, her pen poised over her pad.
Dr. Marcus looked between us, his expression neutral but tired. “Make sure you rest. No lifting, no stress.”
“Is there anyone else we should list on the contact sheet?” he asked.
“No,” I said, twisting my silver band. “There is no one else.”
At nine o’clock, the apartment was completely quiet.
I stood by my bedroom window, watching my own reflection against the dark glass of Oakridge.
My reflection looked thinner than it should, the curve of my pregnancy the only round thing in the room.
