You’re lying back on that crinkly white paper in the dimmed ultrasound room, one hand resting on your belly and the other tightly clasping Simon’s. His thumb strokes the side of your hand, like he’s trying to calm both of you at once, even though neither of you has spoken in over a minute.

You’re still getting used to the word pregnant. The morning sickness and sudden food cravings are real enough, but the word itself feels delicate in your mouth, like something you’re afraid to say too loudly in case it slips away. You’ve caught yourself whispering it sometimes, just to see how it feels, how it lands in the air. I’m pregnant. We’re pregnant. There’s a baby.

Simon sits right next to you in the too-small chair wedged beside the exam table, his leg bouncing—a dead giveaway that he’s nervous. He keeps glancing at you, offering that small, crooked smile he wears when he’s trying to mask his own fear.

The sonographer is kind—young, with warm eyes—and she chats gently as she works, asking how you’ve been feeling, if this is your first. She doesn’t seem fazed by the obvious tension in the room. You both nod, your voices a little tight, and then she spreads the cool gel across your belly and picks up the wand.

“There,” she says, smiling. “Do you see that?”