Page 84 of Everything But Mine

ERIC

Amanda has been‌ careful since we saw that apartment and ran into that woman. Not cold, but not exactly warm. She laughs at my jokes, eats beside me on the couch, but there is a fear in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Eric, you love Amanda.” I had envisioned telling Amanda some other way.

“You are not equals,” Val said. She’s right. I was so worried about taking responsibility for what I did that forgot that if I want us to work, we have to be. And we can’t be if I won’t ask, well, anything from her. Still, I’m not sure how to navigate this line between wanting and acknowledging it’s my fault. I feel it, though; the ache of almost being stuck.

It’s nothing like our old status quo, where I wouldn’t rock the boat. It’s a test of who I’m becoming, and I don’t yet know if I’ll pass. Still, possibility is… progress.

Today has to be a good chunk of my final grade. Sure, we’ve told people we’re raising this baby together, and we both mean it. But it’s precarious, one ill-informed move away from falling apart. I could say the wrong thing, or she could decide they both deserve someone with steadier hands than mine.

Uncle Sandro seems to be pro-that.

So, yeah, today matters.

We’re sitting in the dim, too-quiet waiting room of the OB clinic, flanked by a faux ficus tree and a table stacked with old Parents magazines. Amanda is twenty weeks and one day—solid timing for the second-trimester scan. She booked it the moment the window opened. Said she didn’t want to wait another week. Said she didn’t like not knowing.

I can relate.

So we wait. I bounce my right knee until Amanda leans over and presses her palm against me, curving around my leg and squeezing until I stop. Stunned. That’s when the nurse calls her name. I follow, still holding my breath. I’ve gotten familiar with these appointments—I haven’t missed a single one—but I still half expect her to tell me to wait outside.

My palms are sweaty when Amanda climbs onto the table without looking at me, and I take the seat beside her. A small blonde woman with a pixie haircut introduces herself as Melisa and asks to confirm Amanda’s name and date of birth.

“Amanda Donato. July 17, 1996,” Amanda replies without missing a beat.

“Alright! And we’re checking in on everything today and…” She glances over at me with a bright, curious smile. “Oh—hello. Are you Dad?”

Amanda looks at me and tilts her head, waiting. It feels like both a win and a test I’ve already failed. No one’s asked at the family clinic we go to for her monthly appointments. I’m just Dad this and Dad that. They act like attending every single appointment earns me brownie points. As if I’d miss anything having to do with my kid.

I nod and smile tightly, though I’m nauseous about saying the wrong thing. “Yes, I’m the dad.”

“Great! Just like to check.” Melisa doesn’t slow down because to her it’s just procedure. But to me, “being the dad” is a privilege I want to earn and keep.

“I’ll be talking through what I’m seeing on screen as we go,” she says. “Is it okay to share everything openly with both of you?”

Amanda nods. “Of course. Eric will remember better than I will.”

“Perfect. We’ll be doing the full anatomy scan today. And I believe we’re finding out gender?”

“Yes, please,” Amanda says.

Melisa looks at me, but the lump in my throat barely allows me to nod. She dims the lights and gestures for Amanda to lift her shirt and settle. The tech is talking, but I’m losing track of the words.

It’s been three weeks since the wedding, and Amanda’s stomach is undeniable now. I want to run my hands over her skin and feel the difference. I want to feel the baby move. She still hasn’t said anything about him or her moving. Is there something wrong, a reason our baby isn’t moving? Are they moving, and Amanda hasn’t said? Shit. I’m losing my mind.

A slurping sound pulls me out of my thoughts as Melisa spreads the gel and positions the wand over Amanda’s belly. “I’ll explain what I can as we go,” she says. “And if I go quiet for a moment, don’t worry. I’m probably just concentrating.”

She moves the wand in small, practiced tilts. The screen flickers again—and then, suddenly, there it is. A dark curve. A glowing line. The ghost of movement. Tiny bones, arcing like a crown. The flicker of a heartbeat inside a small rib cage. A femur. A nose. A thumb, already tucked into a tiny mouth.

I tell myself to breathe, but my lungs don’t catch up to the command. This baby is real. This is a baby. Our baby. He or she looks like they might have the hiccups.

Then I hear the heartbeat. That rhythm tugs at something in me I’ve felt before, a tether that can’t be undone. I am more than my failures. The thought rises up from nowhere, quiet and clean. I know I can be what this child needs with a certainty I didn’t know I possessed.

The longer Melisa moves the wand and stays quiet, the more the fear creeps in. It whispers beneath the hum of the machine. The thought arrives before I can block it. Please, don’t be a boy. It’s irrational and unfair, but real.

What if I pass all the scars I haven’t healed from onto him? What if, try as I may, I am just not good enough to break the cycle of abandonment?

Amanda exhales softly—more sigh than breath—and it cuts through the spiral. Her hand rests beside her rib cage, fingers splayed gently. After a moment, I push my hesitation aside and splay my hand over hers. I have a right to want. She intertwines her fingers around mine before I’ve settled my hand over hers.