Dr. Villanueva's clinic on Tuesday had the same plant, the same ceiling fan, the same two plastic chairs in the waiting area. What was different was that I recognized both of the other women waiting. Not personally. By type. I had been one of them, six weeks ago. The particular quality of a woman in the early stages of something enormous and private.
I sat and waited and thought about six weeks.
Six weeks ago I had been in this waiting room for the second visit, hearing the heartbeat for the first time, pressing my hands flat against my thighs to keep myself from showing how much it cost me. I had cried in the taxi on the way home with a driver who pretended not to notice.
Now I was seventeen weeks.
Now I had a name and a developing kick pattern and an iron supplement I took every morn
