Twelve weeks.
The second ultrasound was at Dr. Webb’s clinic on a Friday morning. A proper scan this time — the anatomy survey, the full picture, the first real look at the person we were building.
Dante asked to come.
I said yes.
He arrived at the clinic before me. He was in a dark jacket, no tie, holding two cups of coffee from the place around the corner that had become a habit. He handed me mine when I walked up.
“You were early,” I said.
“I left forty-five minutes early,” he said. “I didn’t want to be late for this.”
I looked at him.
Something about that — the deliberateness of it, the forty-five minutes of margin he had built in because this was something he was not going to risk being late for — went directly into my chest and stayed there.
“Come on,” I said.
Dr. Webb had
