The receptionist tapped her keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor for several seconds. “There are no new entries since your ultrasound appointment.”
Emma stood by the desk, her hand resting on the marble counter as the silence of the clinic seemed to press against her ears.
She walked back out to the elevator, the heavy glass doors closing behind her with a soft rush of air.
When she reached the lower parking level, she pulled her phone from her coat pocket to check the time.
Emma stared at her phone as three missed calls from Michael flashed on the screen.
She cleared the notification and guided the Buick out of the clinic parking garage, the twelve-dollar paper parking receipt fluttering onto the passenger seat as she turned onto the main road. The drive back to Oakhaven took nearly forty minutes through the dense late afternoon traffic, the autumn trees along the highway casting long, skeletal shadows across the pavement. Emma kept both hands tight on the steering wheel, her knuckles pale against the dark leather. Her back ached from the drive, a sharp reminder that the baby was growing heavier by the day.
When she finally pulled into the gravel driveway at six o’clock, she saw Michael standing near the garage doors. He was not wearing a coat despite the drop in temperature, and his arms were crossed over his chest. He did not move as she parked, his eyes tracking the car through the windshield until the engine died.
Emma sat in the quiet cabin for a moment, her fingers automatically reaching down to twist her silver wedding band. She took a slow, deep breath, smoothed her green maternity top, and stepped out into the cold air.
“You did not answer your phone,” Michael said, his voice flat and even as he walked toward her door.
“I was driving,” Emma said, keeping her words short and deliberate. “I had the radio on.”
Michael stopped a foot away from her, his gaze dropping to her hands. He reached down with his right hand and adjusted his leather watch strap, pulling it one notch tighter against his wrist.
“Claire called our home phone three times while you were at your appointment,” Michael said. “She seemed very eager to find you.”
“She was just asking about the nursery paint,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice steady as she reached for her purse. “She wanted to know if we needed help finishing the trim.”
“I told her the nursery is complete,” Michael said. He looked up at the dark second-story window of the house, his face expressionless in the twilight. “I told her we do not require any visitors right now. We only have fourteen days left until the due date, Emma. We should be focusing on our own home.”
Emma felt a cold weight settle in her chest. “I am just tired, Michael. I want to go inside.”
“Of course,” Michael said, his tone softening just enough to sound polite. “I made dinner.”
He placed his hand against her lower back, guiding her toward the porch steps with a firm, steady pressure that left no room for her to hesitate.
At nine o’clock, the house was silent except for the low hum of the kitchen appliances. Emma sat on the edge of the living room sofa, her legs tucked beneath her as she watched Michael set a heavy, gray cardboard box onto the coffee table. The forty-five dollars they had spent on nursery paint seemed like a distant memory compared to the professional-looking box Michael was opening.
