[REBECCA]
I delicately eased into my pink dress, its fabric accommodating the curves of my round stomach. Gazing at my reflection, I marveled at the sight before me.
The dress, a soft and lovely shade of baby pink, flowed down to the midpoint of my thighs. A surge of gratitude washed over me for Lynda, whose thoughtful choice in dresses had proven to be a blessing. Their design flawlessly embraced my pregnant belly, providing comfort and style in one.
Turning from side to side, my reflection displayed the transformation I’d undergone. Just the day before, Lynda had skillfully trimmed my hair, restoring it to the same length it had been before my tumultuous separation. Now it cascaded down my back, an intentional gesture to please Artemy, who adored it this way. My cheeks were slightly fuller, a healthy flush gracing them after a soothing bath. Hours of kisses with Artemy had tinted my lips a gentle shade of pink, each moment since the recovery of my memories feeling like a chapter from a cherished fairy tale.
From the mirror’s vantage point, Artemy emerged from the adjoining bathroom. His attire consisted of a black dress shirt, its upper buttons nonchalantly unfastened, paired with sleek black pants.
“Ready?” he inquired, his presence enveloping me as he stood behind me. Meeting his gaze in our reflection, I nodded, a subtle affirmation of our shared excitement.
We were en route to meet Claire, an appointment marked by a sense of anticipation that bordered on nervousness. Today marked our maiden glimpse of our growing baby through an ultrasound.
A mix of nerves and anticipation caused a slight flutter in my stomach. I leaned back into Artemy’s solid chest, his reassuring touch a balm to my apprehensions. His hand moved to rest on the gentle curve of my baby bump, a warm smile crossing his lips as he felt the baby’s subtle movement.
A tender kiss graced the side of my neck, and he gently led me out of the room, our intertwined paths guiding us downstairs to Sam’s office. The entrance was invitingly ajar, beckoning us inside. Behind the desk, Claire, our trusted figure of support, greeted us with a heartfelt smile.
“Good morning,” her warm voice welcomed.
Returning the sentiment, I acknowledged, “Good morning,” as Claire’s gesture directed me to recline on the examination table. Artemy’s steady assistance ensured my comfortable positioning, granting me a clear view of the room’s array of unfamiliar machines.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Claire’s inquiry brimmed with genuine concern as she began her assessments. She meticulously measured my burgeoning bump, jotting down notes on her pad.
“I’m alright. Just a bit jittery,” I confessed with a small chuckle, realizing the norm of such emotions at this juncture.
A shared laugh marked our shared understanding. “Naturally,” she responded, her empathy evident.
“Do you experience morning sickness or discomfort after eating?” Claire’s curiosity prompted.
I shook my head, a genuine smile gracing my lips. “Not particularly. Mainly just perpetual tiredness.”
Her response was laced with playful camaraderie. “Ah, a perfect excuse for extra sleep then.” She playfully reassured before redirecting her focus. “Could you raise your dress slightly? I need your stomach exposed.”
Before I could respond, Artemy circled the table, his actions swift and solicitous. My dress was gently raised, the fabric accentuating the contours of my chest as it pooled over my breasts, momentarily veiling my sight.
The coolness of the gel applied to my stomach elicited a reflexive flinch, the sudden chill an unexpected sensation. “What is that for?” I inquired, curiosity piqued by the preparation.
“Preparing for the ultrasound,” Claire’s voice was steady, her demeanor reassuring. “I’ll conduct a brief sonogram to gauge measurements and dates, ensuring everything progresses smoothly.”
I nodded in agreement, and Claire’s skilled hand began to guide the ultrasound wand across the gentle curve of my stomach. With precise movements, she input data into her computer. “Everything appears to be in good shape. Your baby looks healthy,” Claire commented, her finger pointing out the tiny form on the monitor. “There’s the little one, and that’s the head.”
Artemy leaned in closer, his eagerness almost pushing his head against the screen. “Why does he seem so small?” he questioned, concern etching his features.
“Rest assured, the baby’s measurements are within the normal range. No need to worry,” Claire reassured, her tone calm.
Given my angle and Artemy’s position obstructing my view, I strained to see. Tilting my head, Artemy caught my movement, and he quickly shifted to my side. With gentle support, he helped me into a semi-upright position, cradling my neck so I could better observe the screen.
“These are the hands,” Claire continued her commentary.
“They’re incredibly tiny,” I murmured, captivated by the sight of those miniature fingers. The sheer adorableness of it all tugged at my heartstrings.
As Claire continued revealing more of our baby on the monitor, tears welled in my eyes, and a soft sniffle escaped me. Overwhelmed by emotion, I whispered, “She’s so beautiful.”
Artemy remained wordless, his attention fixated on the screen. Tears glistened in his eyes, and it was clear he was entranced by the sight before him. The intensity of his gaze conveyed his deep affection and attachment to our little one.
In his eyes, I detected not only love but also a sense of possessiveness, an unspoken promise to shield and safeguard our child with unwavering devotion.
His voice husky with emotion, Artemy inquired, “Is she alright?” The tender vulnerability in his tone touched my heart, evoking more tears.
“She’s perfectly fine, nothing to worry about,” Claire reassured us, maintaining her professional composure.
With the ultrasound wand gliding over my stomach, the baby moved, and a serene smile graced my lips. The reassurance of our baby’s presence was comforting.
Noticing our consistent use of masculine pronouns, Claire posed the question, “Are you curious about the gender? Would you like to know?”
Locked in a silent exchange, Artemy and I shared a moment of contemplation. I bit my lip and nodded, while Artemy turned back to Claire and responded, “Yes.”
Claire’s movements continued for a brief period, and then a grin formed on her face. “This little one seems a bit shy,” she remarked playfully.
Her smile widened, and then she delivered the news with a flourish, “It’s a girl.”
A gasp escaped my lips, and my mouth fell open in astonishment. Artemy, by my side, seemed momentarily frozen. We both stared at the screen, absorbing the revelation.
A girl. Our hearts swelled at the realization that we were going to have a daughter.
“A girl,” I whispered, my voice a mix of awe and delight.
Still in quiet contemplation, Artemy’s gaze remained fixed on the screen, his expression a blend of surprise and wonder. He pressed a clenched fist to his lips, his eyes tightly shut as if processing the information.
Did he anticipate a son? The pattern of addressing our baby as a boy, even for myself, didn’t go unnoticed.
Then, as he opened his eyes, Artemy bent his head to tenderly brush his lips against mine. His kiss was soft, yet it conveyed a wealth of emotion.
“A princess,” he murmured, his words a barely audible utterance, but their impact was profound.
My heart soared at his sentiment. “We’re going to have a princess, Angel,” he declared, his voice carrying a tone of absolute adoration.
His affectionate words resonated deeply within me. They assured me that he shared my joy, if not surpassing it.
Claire’s pleasant smile graced her face as she reached over to power down the screen, ending whatever diagnostic display had been there. With a practiced motion, she extracted a sheet of paper and deftly cleaved it into two halves. One piece she presented to Artemy, extending it towards him with a gentle flourish. “Here’s a picture,” she stated, her voice tinged with a certain professionalism.
Artemy’s gaze lingered on the image longer than mere curiosity would dictate, but I held my tongue. Instead, I focused on his intent scrutiny of the fragment of paper, his eyes locked onto an image that held immense significance. Our daughter’s image.
The thought of her being our daughter, flesh and blood, stirred a warm smile across my lips. The concept seemed to wash over me in a wave of joy and wonder.
“Rebecca,” Claire’s voice intruded, injecting a measure of practicality into the moment, “do you happen to recall the date of your last menstrual cycle? I comprehend that such specifics can be challenging to recollect, but having that information would significantly assist in determining the precise due date.”
Anxiety knotted my chest as I looked towards Artemy, the urgency of the situation hitting me like a gust of wind. His reassuring grip on my hand was a lifeline, and his encouraging expression helped steady my nerves. “I don’t have a clear memory of it,” I confessed hesitantly, my voice catching briefly, “but I know that it happened before…”
Claire’s nod, accompanied by her understanding gaze, bridged my faltering sentence. “Based on the measurements,” she began to explain with a precision that only an expert could wield, “I would estimate you to be approximately twenty-four weeks along. That equates to about five and a half months of pregnancy. You’re nearly six months pregnant.”
Six months pregnant. The realization struck me like a lightning bolt. Artemy had told me that I’d been taken away for eighteen weeks-nearly four and a half months ago. The dots connected, and the truth hung tantalizingly in the air.
Our eyes locked, mirroring each other’s astonishment. “She’s yours,” I whispered, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
Artemy’s swallow was audible, and a slow, reverent nod followed. His forehead gently touched mine, a tender gesture punctuated by a delicate kiss on the tip of my nose. “She’s ours,” he affirmed with a gravity that held worlds of meaning.
My joy couldn’t be contained; tears welled up and traced pathways down my cheeks. Artemy’s thumb swept them away, and his gentle admonishment carried affectionate humor, “No more tears, Angel.”
“They’re tears of happiness,” I managed to explain amidst my emotional state.
Artemy’s smile softened, granting me permission to feel the emotions fully. “Alright, happy tears are allowed.”
Claire’s discreet throat clearing prompted our attention to shift back to her, and we reluctantly disengaged from our shared moment. Her practical guidance flowed forth, the concern of a medical professional woven into her words. “Both the baby and your health are in good condition. I’ll be following up in five days. As a precaution, I’ll remain in the vicinity for two more weeks.”
I acknowledged her advice with a nod, and Artemy fetched some paper towels to delicately remove the gel from my abdomen. He helped me rearrange my dress and guided me into an upright position.
“Now, considering the trauma you’ve been through,” Claire continued, her voice carrying the weight of responsibility, “it’s crucial to take care. Avoid stress, prioritize bed rest, and maintain a healthy diet. A content mother contributes to a content baby.” Her concluding pat on my knee was both reassuring and instructive.
Artemy’s support remained unwavering as he assisted me in standing, drawing me close in a protective embrace. “Thank you,” I murmured softly, my gratitude resonating deeply.