What We Left Behind

Maya’s POV The paper in my hands shakes, but I don't think it's from my trembling fingers. I read the words again, even though I've already read them five times. "Congratulations, Mrs. Rivera. You're pregnant." Dr. Mitchell smiles at me from across her desk, probably used to this reaction. Women who've been trying for three years tend to need a moment when they finally see those words. "How far along?" My voice comes out scratchy. "About six weeks. Still very early." She pulls up something on her computer screen. "And Maya, there's something else. Based on the initial bloodwork and the ultrasound we just did..." She turns the monitor toward me. "You're having twins." I stare at the screen. Two tiny spots, barely visible, but they're there. They're really there. "Twins," I repeat stupidly. "Are you happy?" Dr. Mitchell asks gently. Happy doesn't even begin to cover it. For three years, Daniel and I have been trying. Every month that ended with disappointment. Every negative test. Every awkward conversation about whether we should see a fertility specialist. And now, just when I'd started to lose hope, this. "I'm beyond happy," I manage to say. Tears are running down my face, and I don't bother wiping them away. Dr. Mitchell hands me tissues and several pamphlets. "Now, I want to be honest with you about something. Your blood pressure is a bit elevated, and some of your other numbers concern me slightly. Nothing major, but with twins, we need to be extra careful. I want you to really focus on reducing stress and taking care of yourself. Can you do that?" I nod, barely hearing her. I'm already planning how to tell Daniel. Maybe I'll cook his favorite dinner. Or maybe I'll just blurt it out the moment he walks through the door. Three years is a long time to wait for something, and I don't want to wait another second to share this joy with him. "I'm serious, Maya." Dr. Mitchell's voice is firm now. "Your health isn't optimal right now. Stress could be a real problem for this pregnancy. Promise me you'll take it easy." "I promise," I say, and I mean it. Nothing is going to ruin this. Nothing. I'm floating as I leave the medical building. The San Francisco afternoon is bright and clear, the kind of day that feels like the universe is celebrating with you. I pull out my phone to call Daniel, then stop myself. No. This deserves to be told in person, not over the phone. I head to the Asian market on Clement Street, the one that sells the ingredients I need for my grandmother's dumplings. Daniel claims they're the best thing I make, better than anything his mother ever cooked. It's become our special meal, the thing I make for birthdays and anniversaries and celebrations. This definitely counts as a celebration. The market is crowded, full of families doing their weekend shopping. I weave between them, collecting everything I need. Fresh ginger, scallions, and the special rice wine vinegar my grandmother always insisted on. My hand drifts to my stomach as I wait in line, a gesture I don't even realize I'm making. "When are you due?" the elderly woman behind me asks in Mandarin. I blink, surprised. "How did you know?" She smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. "I've had six children. I can always tell. You have that glow." I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in months. Years, maybe. "Very early still. Six weeks." "Ah, first baby?" "First two babies," I correct her. "Twins." Her eyes widen, and she says something that sounds like a blessing. I'm not fluent enough to catch all of it, but I understand the important part: good fortune. I practically skip back to our apartment building, arms full of groceries. The doorman, Eric, waves at me. "Someone's in a good mood today, Mrs. Rivera." "Best day ever, Eric," I tell him, and I mean it. Our apartment is on the fifteenth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the bay. Daniel bought it two years ago, when Rivera Tech started really taking off. I remember how he'd swept me up in his arms and carried me over the threshold, even though we'd already been married for two years by that point. "This is just the beginning," he'd said. "We're going to build something amazing here." I thought he meant our life together. Now I realize he probably meant his company. I push that thought away. Today is not a day for doubts. Today is perfect. I set my bags on the kitchen counter and check the time. Daniel usually gets home around seven on Fridays, which gives me two hours to cook and set everything up. I want this to be special. I'm rolling out dumpling wrappers when my phone buzzes. A text from Claire, my old colleague from before I quit my job to support Daniel's business. Coffee next week? I miss your face. I smile and text back quickly. Definitely. I have news. I almost tell her right there, but stop myself. Daniel should hear first. The dumplings come together the way they always do, muscle memory guiding my hands through the familiar motions. Fold, pinch, seal. My grandmother taught me when I was eight years old, standing on a stool in her kitchen while she corrected my clumsy attempts. "Patience," she'd say. "Good dumplings can't be rushed." I wonder if she'd be happy to know her great-grandchildren are coming. She passed away two years ago, before Daniel and I started trying. But I think she would have loved this. She always said I would make a good mother. By six-thirty, the dumplings are steaming on the stove, and the table is set. I've even lit candles, which Daniel usually teases me about. "What's the special occasion?" he'll ask, and I'll have to come up with something creative because "just because" never seems to satisfy him anymore. But tonight, I have a real answer. Tonight, everything changes. I'm changing out of my cooking clothes into a dress Daniel once said he loved when I hear my phone buzz again. This time it's Daniel. Running late. Don't wait up. My stomach drops. It's not the first time he's sent this text. It's not even the first time this week. But tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight was supposed to be special. I stare at my phone, debating whether to tell him to come home anyway, that I have something important to share. But what if it makes him feel pressured? What if he's in the middle of something crucial for the company? Okay, I text back. Everything okay? Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Yeah. Just work stuff. Sorry. I set my phone down and look at the perfectly set table, the steaming dumplings, the flickering candles. The pregnancy test results are in my purse, waiting to be shared. Fine. I'll wait. I've waited three years for this pregnancy. I can wait a few more hours to tell him. I turn off the steamer and blow out the candles. The apartment feels suddenly too quiet, too empty. I curl up on the couch with a book, one hand on my stomach, and wait. Eight o'clock comes and goes. Then nine. Then ten. At ten-thirty, my phone rings. Finally. "Hey," Daniel's voice sounds tired. "I'm going to be really late. You should just go to bed." "How late?" I ask, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "I don't know. Midnight, maybe later. We're dealing with a crisis with one of our investors." "Can't Marcus handle it?" Marcus is his business partner, the one who usually deals with investor relations. "Not this time." Daniel's voice is clipped, distracted. I can hear voices in the background. "Look, I have to go. I'll try to be quiet when I come in." "Daniel, wait—" But he's already hung up. I sit there holding my phone, feeling tears prick at my eyes. This is not how this day was supposed to go. This was supposed to be our day, our moment, our celebration. Instead, I'm alone at almost eleven at night, with cold dumplings and melted candles and news that's burning a hole in my heart because I can't share it with the one person who should hear it first. My mother's words from last month echo in my head. We'd been having lunch, and I'd mentioned how much Daniel was working. She'd gotten this look on her face, the same look she used to get when my father would come home late smelling of perfume. "Just make sure he's actually at the office," she'd said quietly. I'd been offended. "Of course he is. Daniel wouldn't—" "Your father wouldn't either," she'd interrupted. "Until he did." I shake my head, pushing the memory away. Daniel is not my father. Daniel loves me. He's just busy. His company is in a crucial growth phase, and I knew what I was signing up for when I married an entrepreneur. Still, I can't help pulling up the tracking app on my phone. It's something we both have, something we set up for safety after a string of carjackings in the city last year. I've never actually checked it before. Daniel's location pops up. He's not at his office. He's at a restaurant downtown. An expensive one. My heart starts pounding. There could be a perfectly good explanation. Maybe the investor meeting moved to a restaurant. That happens, right? I'm being paranoid. I'm being like my mother, seeing shadows where there are none. But I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. And when I finally drift off to sleep around midnight, still alone, still waiting, I dream of my grandmother making dumplings. "Patience," she says in my dream. "But not too much patience. Some things, if you wait too long, they spoil.”