At eighteen weeks the exact point where Emma had lost Sarah Dr. Martinez scheduled an extensive anatomy scan and placental assessment.
Emma woke that morning with dread sitting heavy in her chest. Eighteen weeks. The number felt cursed, haunted. She'd made it to eighteen weeks with Sarah. Had felt safe, had started to believe everything would be okay.
And then her water had broken and her daughter had died.
"You're spiraling," Alexander said gently, watching Emma stare at the ceiling at six AM. "I can see it happening."
"Eighteen weeks." Emma's voice was hollow. "Same as last time."
"Different pregnancy. Different circumstances. Different outcome." Alexander shifted to face her in the narrow hospital bed. He'd been sleeping there more often, ignoring the nurses' protests about regulations. "Emma, Dr. Martinez said this scan is routine for high-risk pregnancies. It doesn't mean something's wrong."
"It doesn't mean something's right either."
