You’d been trying for what felt like forever.

It was a quiet kind of heartbreak, the kind that crept in month after month with each negative test. You’d stopped telling people after a while. Even stopped mentioning it to the team. It was just you and Emily, clinging to hope in the privacy of your own home, quietly grieving each disappointment behind closed doors. You’d known the odds weren’t on your side. You weren’t in your twenties anymore. You understood the math, the risks, the biology—but still, you kept trying.

And then it happened.

That faint pink line. The second one. The one you’d stopped expecting to ever see.

You’d stared at it for a long time in the bathroom, holding your breath. You almost didn’t believe it. But then you took another test. And another. And when Emily came home from work that night, she found you on the couch, surrounded by sticks and shaking with laughter and disbelief.

Now, at nine weeks, you’re lying on an exam table in a dimly lit ultrasound room, holding Emily’s hand as the cool jelly touches your lower abdomen. You’re tired. Nauseated. Still wearing sea bands on both wrists even though they don’t do much. Your nerves are fried from all the unknowns, but Emily is calm, her thumb rubbing soft circles over your knuckles. You look over at her and she smiles at you, steady and sure.

The monitor beeps, and your OB begins her measurements.

You wait for her to say something—anything—but she goes quiet. Her brow furrows slightly. She tilts the probe to the side, then again.

You grip Emily’s hand a little tighter.

Then, the doctor clears her throat. “I’m just going to have Dr. Lieberman step in for a moment. Another set of eyes, okay?”

Panic blooms in your chest.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, voice thinner than you’d like.

“Just want to confirm what I’m seeing,” she says gently. “Hang tight.”

Emily leans in, brushing her lips to your temple. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s probably nothing.”

But your stomach is in your throat.

Another doctor comes in. Introduces herself. They talk in quiet tones, reviewing the screen, counting things you can’t see. And then your OB turns back toward you.

“Well,” she says slowly, kindly. “There are… four.”

You blink. “Four what?”

“Four heartbeats,” she says. “You’re having quadruplets.”

The room spins a little.

Your mind can’t catch up. “That’s not possible,” you blurt out, your voice shaking. “That can’t be right. We were just hoping for one.”

Emily’s hand is frozen in yours. She isn’t saying anything.

You sit up too fast, nausea pressing behind your eyes. “No. No, I can’t—we can’t. That’s not—how do people even do that?”

“I know it’s a shock,” the OB says gently. “But so far, they all look healthy. We’ll refer you to a high-risk OB immediately. You’ll be closely monitored, but this is manageable.”

Manageable. That word feels ridiculous.

You look over at Emily, finally. She’s blinking rapidly, trying to find words. Her face is a mix of awe, concern, disbelief, and love. Mostly love. But even she looks like the ground just gave way beneath her feet.

“I was just hoping I’d stop throwing up by week twelve,” you mumble.

And then you cry.

Because it’s too much, too fast. Because you spent so long wondering if you’d ever carry even one baby, and now your body is holding four. Because you’re scared out of your mind—of your age, your body, your future. Of failing before it even really begins.

Emily cups your face gently. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”