The morning of my first ultrasound, I woke up terrified.
I'd been through this before. Three times, actually. I knew what to expect—the cold gel, the wand pressed against my belly, the whooshing sound of a heartbeat filling the room. I knew the drill. But this time felt different. This time, I was older. This time, I had more to lose.
Nicholas was already awake, watching me with those pale blue eyes that could see right through me. "You're nervous."
"Terrified," I admitted. "What if something's wrong? What if—"
"Nothing's wrong." He took my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine. "You're healthy. The baby is healthy. We're going to see a perfect little heartbeat on that screen, and everything is going to be fine."
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But the fear was there, lurking in the back of my mind, whispering all the worst-case scenarios.
"What if it's not fine?" I whispered. "What if—"
