I reach for her hand on instinct. My fingers wrap around hers, and she grips mine back.
The tech grabs the belly scanner thing, eyes focused on the screen now. “All right, let’s have a peek.”
The screen lights up in a haze of static. Gray and white and black smudges. I squint, trying to make sense of it.
And then, there.
A flicker, small and rhythmic. A heartbeat.
“There’s your baby,” she says.
Magnolia inhales, and her fingers clutch mine harder.
I blink, not trusting what I’m seeing. That little flash of motion on the screen, that blur of shadows and light—it’s real. It’s alive. And it’s ours.
That’s our baby.
Not hypothetical. Not abstract. Not some theoretical timeline we’ve been dancing around for months.
It’s here, and already stealing my breath. I don’t realize I’m crying until Magnolia looks over, eyes glassy. “It’s okay, big guy.”
She squeezes my hand again. Reassuring.
I lean over and kiss her forehead. “I love you,” I whisper. “Thank you for giving me this.”
Her lashes flutter, and her free hand comes up to rest on my cheek for a second. Only for a second, but it’s everything.
She moves the wand thing, tilting it for a better view. “Heartbeat looks strong. Everything’s measuring right on time for seven weeks. You’ve got yourself a little overachiever already.”
Magnolia gives a laugh. “Just like his dad.”
I huff out a smile, still trying to get my emotions under control. “Or her mum.”
The tech clicks a button and the printer whirs. “One copy enough?”
Magnolia sits up. “Could I have two copies––one for us, and one for the grandparents.”
“Of course. Do you need a third for other grandparents?”
Magnolia smiles, but there’s a tightness around it. Polite, practiced. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
The tech nods and slips the prints into a small envelope and hands it over.
Robin won’t be in this child’s life. Won’t send cards or knit blankets or call every other day to check in. But our baby won’t be missing anything. I’ll make sure of it.
This child will be loved.
Deeply. Fiercely. Recklessly.
And Magnolia? She’ll never have to wonder if she’s enough.
My heart swells with it—this bone-deep knowing that whatever else happens, whatever curveballs come our way, this child is already surrounded with love. And so is she.
Always.
The tech wipes the gel from Magnolia’s belly. “Congratulations on the baby. And best of luck on your return to rugby.”
Magnolia relaxes against the table, the envelope in her grip. “Is that how you thought this would feel?”
