She walks in without saying a word. The room feels smaller all of a sudden. She’s holding something a small photo, black and white, sliding it across my desk like it’s a secret I wasn’t ready to hear.

I look down and see it: the ultrasound. A heartbeat I can’t hear but somehow feel pounding inside me.

Time slows.

My chest tightens, like someone slammed their fist into it. I’m 52. I’ve been through this. I’m a grandfather. I thought those days were done. Thought I had closed the book.

I want to say something. I want to ask if this is real, if it’s a joke. But my throat closes.

I stare at the photo like it’s a puzzle I don’t know how to solve. My hands twitch wanting to hold, but afraid to.

The silence drags on, thick and heavy.