Chapter 11: The Pregnancy Checkup

BRABRA

I wake up already thinking about the appointment, the date circled in my planner for over a week now, tucked beside the small black-and-white printout I still take out sometimes at night just to look at.

Twenty weeks. Halfway there, more or less, though nothing about the last twenty weeks has felt like anything I could measure so neatly. I lie in bed a moment longer than usual, both hands resting over my stomach, feeling the faint, unfamiliar flutter that's started showing up more often lately not quite kicks yet, Dr. Adaora told me at my last visit, just the first small signs of two lives finding their footing.

"Big day," I whisper to them, though they have no way of understanding what that means yet. "Try to behave for the doctor."

I get up slower than I used to, my body negotiating every movement now in a way it didn't back when this all started. I dress carefully, comfortable clothes that don't fight against the small, rounding shape of my stomach, and I catch myself checking my reflection twice, not out of habit this time, but out of something closer to hope. I don't know what I'm hoping for exactly. Maybe just to look like a woman who's handling this well, even on the mornings I don't feel like I am.

The waiting room at Riverside Women's Clinic hasn't changed since my first visit, but I have.

I sit in the same kind of plastic chair, my bag clutched in my lap the same way, except this time my hand doesn't leave my stomach even for a second. There's no point hiding it here, among women who all understand exactly what that gesture means.

"Brabra?"

The same nurse from before leads me back, her smile just as warm, just as unbothered by the fact that my whole life has quietly rearranged itself since the last time I sat on this exam table.

"Twenty weeks today," Dr. Adaora says, glancing at my chart as she settles onto her stool. "How have you been feeling?"

"Tired," I admit. "More tired than I expected."

"That's normal with twins. Your body's working twice as hard." She smiles gently. "Any pain? Anything sharp or sudden?"

"Some. Manageable." I don't tell her about the hallway, about hands finding my shoulders, about a man's voice cracking with fear over something he wasn't supposed to notice yet. Some things don't belong on a medical chart.

The appointment moves quickly after that, familiar now in a way it wasn't the first time. Blood pressure. Weight. The cold press of the ultrasound wand against my stomach, no longer startling, almost comforting in its familiarity.

"Everything looks good," Dr. Adaora says, turning the screen toward me. "Strong heartbeats, both of them. Growing right on track."

I stare at the screen, at two small shapes that look more like babies now than they did weeks ago, tiny limbs visible where before there had only been faint outlines. My throat tightens.

"They're getting bigger," I whisper.

"They are." She smiles. "You're doing well, Brabra. I know you're doing this on your own, and I want you to know, that takes real strength."

Her kindness nearly undoes me. I press my lips together and nod, blinking hard against the sting building behind my eyes, because if I let even one tear fall in this room, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop the rest from following.

By the time I leave the clinic, folder tucked against my chest the way it always is now, the late afternoon sun has turned the sidewalk gold, warm despite the cool air. I take a slow breath, letting some of the appointment's quiet reassurance settle into my chest.

Then I see him.

Andriy stands near the corner of the building, hands in his coat pockets, watching the clinic entrance like he's been standing there for a while, like he already knew exactly where to find me today.

My steps falter.

"You followed me," I say, when I'm close enough that whispering feels pointless.

"I didn't follow you." His voice is quiet, careful, none of the sharp control from our last conversation. "I've had a car outside your apartment building most mornings this week. I saw you leave early today, dressed differently than usual. I put the pieces together."

"That's still following me, Andriy."

"I know." He doesn't try to defend it further, and something about that honesty catches me off guard more than an excuse would have. "I'm sorry. I told myself I'd give you space. I meant it when I said it. I just—" He stops, jaw tight, searching for words that don't come easily to a man used to having every word already prepared. "I couldn't stop thinking about you in that hallway. About the fear on your face when I asked if you were pregnant."

My grip tightens on the folder against my chest.

"Brabra." He steps closer, slow enough that I have time to step back if I want to. I don't. "I'm not going to pretend anymore that I don't know. I've known for days. I think some part of me has known since that hallway."

The folder feels suddenly heavy in my arms, proof I can't hide any longer standing three feet away from the man it most concerns.

"Yes," I say, before he can ask the question again, before I can lose the small, fragile courage gathering in my chest. "I'm pregnant."

He goes very still, though I can see the effort it costs him, the careful control working to hold something enormous in place behind it.

"With twins," I add, quieter now, watching his face for whatever comes next. "They're yours, Andriy. I should have told you weeks ago. I was afraid of what you'd do."

"What did you think I'd do?"

"I don't know." My voice shakes. "Disappear. Offer money and nothing else. Decide I was a problem to manage instead of a person you actually—" I stop myself before I finish that sentence, before I say something that reveals more than I'm ready to.

"A person I actually what?"

"Nothing." I look away. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." He reaches out, not quite touching me, his hand hovering near my arm the way it did in that meeting room weeks ago. "Brabra, look at me."

I do, and I find none of the cold, controlled CEO from that first conference table. Just a man standing on a sidewalk outside a women's clinic, staring at me like the ground beneath him has genuinely shifted.

"I'm not disappearing," he says, low and certain. "And I'm not offering money like it solves anything. I want to be here. For you. For them."

Tears finally slip free, warm against the cold air, and I don't bother wiping them away this time.

"I don't know how to let someone do that," I whisper. "I've been alone with this for so long."

"Then let me start now." He finally closes the distance, his hand settling gently against my arm, steady and warm. "Let me come to the next appointment. Let me see them, Brabra. Let me hear what you already know."

I look down at the folder still clutched against my chest, at the small printed images tucked inside it, two lives that have never once belonged to me alone, no matter how long I tried to carry them like they did.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. You can come."

Something shifts across his face — relief, disbelief, a rawness he doesn't try to hide from me for once.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I don't know yet what comes after this moment, what shape our lives take now that the truth is finally standing between us instead of hidden behind it. But for the first time in weeks, walking beside him toward the corner where his car waits, I don't feel like I'm carrying this alone anymore.

It's terrifying.

It's also, quietly, something close to relief.

He walks me to his car but doesn't ask me to get in, seeming to understand, without me having to say it, that I need to walk the rest of the way home on my own two feet tonight, even if he insists on trailing slowly beside me at a respectful distance.

"The appointment's in two weeks," I tell him, at the corner where our paths finally split. "Thursday afternoon. I'll text you the address."

"I'll be there." No hesitation. No careful qualifiers. Just a promise, plain and steady, the kind I haven't heard many people make to me in a long time. "Brabra."

"Yes?"

"Thank you for telling me." His eyes hold mine, none of the careful distance from our first meetings left in them now. "I know it wasn't easy."

"No," I admit. "It wasn't."

I watch him walk back toward his car, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little less rigid than I've ever seen them, and I press my palm against my stomach one more time before I turn toward home.

"We're not alone anymore," I whisper, to the two small lives who have no idea what a strange, uncertain gift that is. "I don't know exactly what that means yet. But we're not alone."

For the first time in weeks, the walk home doesn't feel quite as long.