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A spine, the curve of the skull, a protruding leg. And a heart. Tiny and furiously beating.
A sad smile curves across my lips. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Now, let’s see…” She does some calculations on the screen. “Based on measurements, you’re about eighteen weeks along, which puts you at a due date of approximately June twenty-ninth.”
Panic grabs me by the throat. I’m further along than I thought.
All of this is too soon. Too fast.
Winfrey nudges her glasses up on her nose. “Have you felt the baby move yet?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The roar of blood pounds in my ears. “I don’t think so. Is that bad?”
“Not at all. Your little one’s tucked in there tight. They’ll make themselves known when they’re ready.”
I swallow, staring at the little baby on the screen.
“Would you like to know the gender?”
“No,” I blurt.
Winfrey arches a brow. “Excuse me?”
“No.” I shake my head vigorously. “I don’t want to know.” Guilt heats my cheeks.
I’m not ready. Because if it’s a boy, then I have to worry that he’ll be like his father. If it’s a girl, I’ll worry about warning her away from men like Aiden.
All my life, I will hate myself for not being a better example.
Winfrey sets down the wand, her eyes narrowing in a wise way I don’t like. “Are you sure, Dakota?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
The little flickering heart up on the screen terrifies me. Another life I’m responsible for when I can’t even manage my own. It’s like that little beat is an SOS signal, a reminder of how badly I’m about to fail.
Tears cloud my vision.
I just want to begin again.
I want to love my baby without sorrow. I want to bake without pain, and I want to learn to love again without flinching or fear.
I just wantmeback.
A sob bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Oh god.” I sniffle, sitting up on my elbows. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Winfrey says, handing over a clump of tissues, and I’m reminded why I liked her so much as a babysitter. “It’s normal. Hormones.”
“Right.” I dab at my eyes, tears still blurring my vision.
“Here. I’ll print you a photo of that beautiful little blur.”
The wand’s hung up, the jelly’s cleaned off my stomach, and the machine’s silenced.
I tug the gown down and take the photo Winfrey hands me. Without looking at it, I shove it into my purse.
A better mother would want this. A better mother would take the sonogram and hang it on her fridge. And then I’m reminded I don’t even have a fridge and fresh tears hit me once more.
