If there was one thing I had learned in the past six months, it was that pregnancy appointments were not just check-ups.
They were psychological warfare.
I don't know how other men did it so casually by sitting in hospital waiting rooms scrolling through their phones like their entire world wasn't being monitored behind a door. Me? I couldn't breathe properly until I saw the ultrasound screen with my own eyes.
Mira sat next to me in the private consultation room, legs crossed, one hand resting over our daughter like she was protecting her already. She was calm. Completely calm. Meanwhile, my jaw was tense enough to crack a tooth.
The doctor walked in a moment later—Dr. Levine, mid-thirties, trying a little too hard to look relaxed. I didn't miss the way his steps stuttered the moment his gaze flicked to me.
Good.
"Mr. and Mrs. Romano," he greeted, smiling too widely. "Good to see you both again."
Mira smiled back politely. I just nodded.
