Ava "Sure you will," I said, but I let it drop. We ate in silence, him flipping channels, me stealing glances. It wasn't perfect, but it was something.By eight months, though? Torture. I couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe right, and Caleb's "trying" meant he'd cook eggs sometimes burnt, of course or ask about my day like a script. "How was it?" he'd say, not looking up from his laptop."Boring as hell," I'd snap. "Sat around, watched my feet inflate. Thrilling."He'd chuckle half-heartedly. "Want ice cream?""Always," I'd say, and he'd get it, but it felt like pity.One day, I had a check-up alone because he "had work." Sat in that sterile room, legs dangling, and the doc did the ultrasound. "It's a boy," she said, all cheery. But then her face changed. "But, uh, there are some concerns. Heart rate's off, fluid levels low. He might be sick, and may need NICU time after birth. We'll monitor."I froze. "Sick? Like how sick?""Could be chronic issues, respiratory to go below. We'll see."
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