I wasn’t late.
But my heart sure as hell felt like it was trying to catch up to something; a future I hadn’t planned for, a secret I couldn’t bury fast enough.
The air inside Midtown OB/GYN Associates hit me like a slap in the face. Lemon-scented disinfectant layered over something far more primal. Anxiety. Expectation. Fear in its cleanest, most sterile form.
I inhaled once. Shallow.
Didn’t help.
My fingers closed around the clipboard like it might anchor me. The pen they handed me was too light, the kind that makes your signature feel ghostly, like even your name is trying to disappear.
Second appointment. Nine weeks. I was supposed to feel more confident by now. Supposed to be glowing or grounded or whatever other Pinterest-friendly myth people pushed about pregnancy.
But I didn’
