Emylyah shrinks back on the exam table, her eyes wide and her face pale. Still, she looks as shocked as I am. The doctor glances between us, clearly sensing the tension.
A calm, older man with salt-and-pepper hair, he shakes his head. "No mistake, Mr. Radaeva. Your wife is well into her second trimester. But sometimes these things can be a surprise, especially since I see she has an active implant.”
He looks at Emylyah. “Have you been taking any supplements?”
A small frown mars her forehead. “Um, just some St John’s Wort because I was feeling a little down,” she admits, and my gut wrenches again at her admittance.
The doctor hums under his breath and notes something on his records. “How much are you taking?” he asks, his lips pursed.
She flicks a glance my way before she responds. “Umm… 900mg a day.”
Dr Zelensky nods. “You need to stop taking it, but you’ll have to reduce your dose before you stop, or it could lead to withdrawal issues.”
His response makes me feel even worse. My wife has been self-medicating because she feels down!
Instead of dwelling on it, the doctor diplomatically changes the subject. “Also, we’ll need to remove your implant before you leave. Now, would you like to see the ultrasound?"
Before I can respond, Lyah blurts out, "Yes! Please."
I’m still trying to corral my fatalistic suspicions when he turns the ultrasound monitor towards us. But then, shockingly, every thought is wiped from my mind, as there, on the screen, is a fully formed baby - not the vague blob I was expecting, but a tiny person with a distinct head, body, and limbs. All I can do is stare in awe.
"Would you like to know the gender?" the doctor asks, his tone all business.
I nod mutely, too overwhelmed to speak. Emylyah remains silent beside me, the tears in her eyes making them even bluer than normal.
"It's a boy," the doctor says with a smile. "Congratulations."
A boy. We're having a son. The reality of it hits me like a tidal wave and I have to fight to remain stoic and unaffected. Even so, I find myself gripping the edge of the exam table for support. A son. An heir. The weight of legacy and responsibility crashes down on me, mingling with an unexpected surge of fierce protectiveness.
"Everything looks healthy," the doctor continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Strong heartbeat, good size for his gestational age. Would you like to hear it?"
Before either of us reply, a rapid whooshing sound fills the room. My son's heartbeat. It's fast, steady…
Alive.
I glance at Emylyah, seeing the wonder and joy on her face as she listens. Her hand rests on her belly, and for a moment, I'm seized by the urge to place my own hand there, to feel closer to this new life we've created.
But I resist, my mind racing with implications and plans. Seventeen weeks. That's over four months. How did she not notice? How did I not notice? I pride myself on being observant, on knowing everything that happens in my world. Yet somehow, this monumental change slipped right past me.
"I'll print out some pictures for you," the doctor says, breaking into my thoughts. "And we'll need to schedule another appointment in about 4 weeks for the anatomy scan."
I nod curtly, still processing everything. As Dr. Zelensky leaves to print the ultrasound images, I turn to Emylyah, studying her intently.
"Seventeen weeks," I say, my voice low and controlled. "How did you not know?"
I don’t make an outright accusation, but she clearly knows me well enough since she shakes her head frantically, her eyes wide and earnest. "I swear, Niko, I had no idea. My periods have always been irregular, after all this time you must know that, and with the implant, there was no reason to suspect..." She trails off, biting her lip.
Do I know that? I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’m unaware of such things, despite being married for almost three years. But it’s true that her cycle has never intruded on my pleasure, and I take her whenever I feel like it.
Plus, I want to believe her. The shock on her face when the doctor announced how far along she was seemed genuine. But years of paranoia and suspicion are hard to shake.
"What about weight gain? Nausea?" I press, searching for any sign of deception.
“I haven't noticed any changes," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.
"What tiny clues there might have been I put down to stress. I've been worried about Roisin. About u... you. There was some vague nausea, but I didn't want to bother you with what I thought was just anxiety."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Have I really been so distant, so unapproachable, that my own wife was afraid to bother me with her health concerns? The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
