Claire made a broken sound beside me that almost became crying before she swallowed it back down.
My knees weakened so suddenly I had to brace myself against the bed.
The baby was alive.
For one suspended moment, nothing else in the world mattered except that tiny heartbeat flashing on the screen.
The doctor continued explaining complications in calm clinical language.
Threatened miscarriage.
Observation period.
Stress-related complications.
Strict bed rest.
No guarantees.
Only hope.
Claire stared at the monitor without blinking, like looking away might make the heartbeat disappear.
I stared at her instead.
At the damp strands of hair stuck against her forehead.
At the backward nightgown beneath her open coat.
At the woman I almost failed during the exact moment she needed me most.
Hours later, nurses moved Claire into a small observation room overlooking the hospital parking lot.
Dawn slowly crept across the sky outside, turning everything pale gray.
A nurse suggested I sit down before I passed out.
I ignored her.
Claire lay beneath thin blankets with one hand resting protectively over her stomach.
My powered-off phone sat inside my pocket like a stone I couldn’t escape carrying.
Eventually she opened her eyes.
Morning light softened her face slightly, making her look younger somehow.
And sadder.
“I need you to tell me something,” she whispered.
I moved closer immediately.
“Anything.”
She studied me silently for several seconds.
“If your mother asks for proof that the baby is yours… would you ask me for it?”
The question didn’t surprise me.
Because deep down, I already knew the truth.
Some weak frightened part of me had imagined tests before tonight.
Not because Claire had ever given me a reason to doubt her.
But because my mother’s poison had lived inside my head long enough to leave stains.
Outside the room, someone laughed softly near the nurses’ station.
The ordinary sound somehow made the moment even crueler.
I thought about my mother waiting for obedience disguised as concern.
