"Eight weeks," the doctor said, pointing to the blinking dot on the ultrasound screen. "Heartbeat's strong."
Elaine blinked, lips parted. “It's real."
The doctor smiled gently. “Very real."
Tears blurred her vision as the rhythmic flicker pulsed across the monitor—steady, fierce, alive.
A heartbeat. Hers. Theirs.
No—not his.
Hers and the child's.
---
Elaine rode home gripping the sealed envelope like a shield. She rehearsed what to say. How to say it.
“I'm pregnant, and I don't want your pity."
Or maybe:
“You can hate me all you want, James, but this child is not a weapon."
Or maybe nothing at all.
---
She spent the afternoon preparing his favorite risotto.
Sautéed garlic, cream stirred slowly, parmesan freshly grated. Candlelight flickered across the polished dining table.
