The waiting room of the women’s clinic smelled of lemon antiseptic and expensive worry. Emily sat with her hands folded over the paper gown, ankles crossed, every muscle pretending calm while the clock made a soft insect sound on the wall.
Yesterday Brian had caught her pressing a palm to her lower belly in the kitchen. For one dizzying moment, he’d softened—public-ready tenderness, the kind of polished concern he wore like a campaign pin. By noon, his office had texted her an appointment at a private women’s clinic. Of course he couldn’t come. “Back-to-back meetings,” his assistant had said, dropping her at the door and hovering in the hall like security glass—visible but unreachable.
The ultrasound gel had been cold. The screen a storm of gray snow. Then, in the middle, a grain of ligh
