The room grew suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic, metallic beep of the heart monitor, a sound that suddenly felt less like a reassurance of life and more like a ticking countdown.
Margaret lay on the crisp white sheets, her hands trembling as she clutched the hospital gown. Her swollen belly, the precious mound she had spent nine months caressing and speaking to in the quiet hours of the night, felt heavy. A cold dread settled deep in her chest.
“What do you mean?” Margaret’s voice was barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of sudden terror. “What’s wrong with my baby? Is he… is he okay?”
The young obstetrician, Dr. Harrison, didn’t answer immediately. He was staring at the ultrasound monitor, his fingers flying across the control panel. The image on the screen was a chaotic swirl of gray and white shadows. He adjusted the probe on her abdomen, pressing down firmly. Margaret winced, not from the physical pressure, but from the grim, pale look hardening on the doctor’s face.
Two other senior specialists, who had been hastily summoned into the delivery room, stood flanking him. One of them, a silver-haired woman named Dr. Vance, put on her glasses and leaned in so close to the screen her breath fogged the glass. She let out a soft, sharp intake of air.
“Get me her complete medical history from the prenatal clinic,” Dr. Vance ordered a nurse in a low, urgent tone. “Now. And(simo)page the chief of surgery.”
“Please, someone talk to me!” Margaret pleaded, tears finally spilling over her wrinkled cheeks. At sixty-five, she knew her body wasn’t young. She knew the risks. But she had felt the kicks. She had felt the shifting weight. She had experienced the morning sickness, the swollen ankles, the profound, overwhelming exhaustion of carrying life. The home pregnancy tests had shown two undeniable pink lines.
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