The appointment card sat on the counter for three days before Emma picked it up again. She moved it from the stack of mail to the fruit bowl, then to the fridge door, then back to the counter as though shifting its place might shift her feelings with it. Each time her eyes landed on the date—Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.—her chest tightened.
It wasn't that she didn't want to go. She did. She wanted to hear the sound everyone described, that small, steady rhythm that promised life was moving inside her. She wanted it desperately. But the wanting made her afraid. Because what if she didn't hear it? What if silence swallowed the room instead?
By Monday night, she was almost ready to call and cancel. She rehearsed what she would say: Something came up, can we push it a week? She told herself she just needed more time, more courage. But lying in bed, one hand pressed against her stomach, she admitted the truth—she wasn't afraid of the appointment. She was afraid of hope.
Morning came gray and cool, clouds stretched thin across the sky. Emma dressed slowly, pulling on a loose sweater and leggings, brushing her hair into something neat enough. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the clock. 9:10. She should have been in the car already.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Jake.
Outside. Want me to come in?
She hadn't asked him to drive her. She hadn't even told him the exact time, only mentioned it in passing weeks ago. But he remembered.
Her fingers trembled as she typed: Yes. Please.
He didn't ask questions when she opened the door. He just nodded, taking in the look on her face, and said, "We'll be fine."
The drive was quiet, but not heavy. Jake's truck hummed along the familiar roads, his hands steady on the wheel. Emma watched the trees blur past, early leaves just beginning to turn. She wanted to fill the silence, to say something about the weather or the song on the radio, but words felt fragile.
At a red light, Jake glanced over. "You look pale."
Emma gave a short laugh. "Thanks."
"You nervous?"
"Terrified."
Jake nodded once, as though she'd said something ordinary. "That's allowed."
She pressed her palms against her knees. "What if—"
"Don't," he said gently, not harsh, but firm enough to stop her spiraling. "One step at a time."
The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. A handful of other women sat scattered in chairs, flipping through magazines, scrolling their phones. Emma checked in at the desk, her name sounding strange in the receptionist's cheerful voice.
She and Jake chose seats near the corner. Emma clasped her hands in her lap, the overhead clock ticking loudly against her pulse. She found herself glancing at the other women—one rubbing her rounded belly absently, another laughing quietly with her partner, another sitting alone like Emma, eyes lowered.
She wondered which one she resembled most.
"You okay?" Jake asked quietly.
She nodded, though her throat felt too tight for words.
When the nurse finally called her name, Emma's legs felt unsteady. She glanced at Jake. He was already rising, waiting for her signal. She gave a small nod, and he followed.
The exam room was cool, the paper on the table crinkling beneath her as she sat. The nurse smiled warmly. "We'll just check vitals first, then the doctor will be in. Today's the exciting part."
Exciting. Terrifying. Emma managed a smile.
Jake stood in the corner, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. He didn't fidget, didn't pace. He just… stayed. His presence filled the space, steady as a held note.
When the doctor entered, cheerful and efficient, Emma's breath quickened. Words blurred as instructions were given, gel squeezed onto her abdomen, the cold shock making her flinch. The handheld Doppler wand pressed lightly, moving in slow circles.
For a moment, there was only static. Emma's chest clenched. She gripped the paper-covered edge of the table.
Then it came—a rapid, steady thrum, faint but unmistakable. Like a distant drum, alive, insistent.
Emma's eyes widened. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until it escaped in a shaky laugh.
"There it is," the doctor said gently. "Strong heartbeat. Around one-fifty beats per minute. Perfect."
Emma's throat tightened. Tears spilled before she could stop them. She turned her head toward Jake.
He wasn't smiling, not quite, but something shifted in his face. His eyes softened, and he gave the smallest nod, as though confirming what she had been too afraid to believe.
"You hear it?" she whispered.
"I hear it," Jake said quietly.
The sound filled the room, steady and sure. Emma closed her eyes, letting it wash through her, into every corner of fear she had been carrying. Her baby. Alive. Here.
When the appointment ended and she stepped back into the daylight, Emma felt lighter, though her cheeks were still damp. Jake walked beside her, silent until they reached the truck.
"Thanks for coming," she said as they climbed in.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I almost didn't go."
"I know."
Emma turned to him, startled. "You knew?"
"I guessed," Jake said with a small shrug. "Figured you'd try to carry it alone."
She looked at him for a long moment. "I'm glad you didn't let me."
The corner of his mouth lifted, the closest thing to a smile she had seen all day. "Me too."
On the way home, Jake slowed as they passed a small diner Emma had driven by countless times but never entered.
"Hungry?" he asked.
She realized she was, suddenly and completely. "Starving."
They slid into a booth by the window, menus sticky with years of use. The waitress poured coffee for Jake and orange juice for Emma without being asked.
They ordered pie—apple for him, lemon meringue for her—and sandwiches they barely touched. Conversation came in fragments, easy and sparse. Emma kept hearing that sound in her head, that steady drum, and every time it replayed, her chest ached in a new way.
"Do you remember the first time you heard your daughter's heartbeat?" she asked suddenly.
Jake looked down at his coffee. "Yeah." His voice was low, but not fragile. "I remember. Thought my chest was going to break open. Felt… bigger than me."
Emma swallowed hard. "That's how it feels."
He nodded. "Good."
They sat in silence again, but it was full, not empty.
Back home, Emma lingered in the nursery doorway after Jake left. The mural glowed faintly in the late afternoon light, stars stretching across the wall, a fox curled beneath the painted moon. She sat in the rocking chair and pressed her hands against her belly.
She wished she could record the sound she'd heard and send it to Luke. But even if she could, she doubted the distance between them would allow such a fragile gift to reach him whole.
So she pulled out her notebook instead.
Luke, she wrote, today I heard our baby's heartbeat. I wish you could have been there. It was fast and strong and so alive. I didn't know how much I needed to hear it until I did. I was so scared, but Jake came with me. He didn't say much—he never does—but he was there, and that mattered more than I can explain.
She paused, staring at the page. The tears came again, but softer this time.
I wanted you to know: we're okay. We're real. And for the first time in a long while, I believe we're going to be alright.
She set the pen down, resting her palm over her stomach. The memory of the sound filled the silence.
Not just a heartbeat. A promise.
That night, as she lay in bed, Emma closed her eyes and listened to the echo of that tiny drum. It played beneath her own pulse, a rhythm of hope she hadn't dared to trust.
And though Luke was far away, though the days ahead still stretched uncertain and long, Emma held on to the sound that had changed everything.
The baby's heartbeat.
Her heartbeat now, too.