13. TRUTH
TRUTH
FIVE DAYS LATER…
The exam table was cold beneath my bare legs.
I’d been sitting here for twenty minutes in nothing but a hospital gown that opened in the back, my feet already in the stirrups, waiting.
The paper crinkled every time I shifted.
The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, making everything feel overexposed and clinical in a way that made my skin crawl.
I knew Amai was in the waiting room.
Dr. Beaumont had told me after they got me settled in the room. “Mr. Landry is here,” she’d said, like it was routine. Like men showed up for embryo transfers all the time.
But knowing he was out there—just beyond that door, sitting in one of those uncomfortable waiting room chairs, probably not reading the magazines, probably just… waiting—made this feel different.
Made it feel real in a way the egg retrieval hadn’t.
I pressed my hands flat against my thighs and tried to breathe.
The door was cracked open. I could hear voices in the hallway—Dr. Beaumont’s calm, professional tone and someone else. A nurse, maybe.
“—look like different Landrys,” the nurse was saying, her voice uncertain. “Are we using both, or?—”
“That’s not your concern.” Dr. Beaumont’s voice cut through, sharp and immediate. “The vials are labeled correctly. That’s all you need to know.”
“I just thought?—”
“Don’t think. Do your job.”
Silence.
Then footsteps.
I stared at the ceiling tiles, my heart suddenly pounding.
Different Landrys?
What did that mean?
Were there… other samples? Backup samples?
I tried to process it, tried to make sense of what I’d just heard, but my mind felt sluggish and slow. Maybe the nurse didn’t know what she was talking about. Maybe it was a labeling thing. Maybe?—
The door opened.
Dr. Beaumont walked in, her expression calm and composed, like the conversation in the hallway had never happened. Behind her, a nurse wheeled in a small cart with instruments I didn’t want to look at too closely.
“How are we feeling?” Dr. Beaumont asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
“Nervous,” I admitted.
“That’s normal.” She smiled—professional, reassuring, the kind of smile that was supposed to make you feel safe. “This is a quick procedure. You’ll feel some pressure, maybe a little cramping, but nothing like the retrieval. And then we wait.”
I nodded.
She moved to the end of the table, adjusting the stirrups slightly. “Scoot down for me.”
I did.
The vulnerability of the position hit me all over again—legs spread, pussy out, completely at the mercy of someone else’s hands.
“Deep breath,” Dr. Beaumont said.
I inhaled.
The speculum was cold. I felt it slide in, felt the pressure as she adjusted it, opening me wider. My hands gripped the edges of the exam table.
“You’re doing great,” the nurse said from somewhere to my left.
I didn’t feel great.
I felt like I was being split open.
“Another deep breath,” Dr. Beaumont instructed. “I’m going to insert the catheter now.”
I breathed.
Felt the thin tube slide through my cervix—a strange, invasive sensation that made my whole body tense.
“Try to relax,” Dr. Beaumont said. “The more you tense, the harder this is.”
I tried.
Failed.
“There,” she said after what felt like an eternity. “Catheter’s in place. Now we’re going to use the ultrasound to guide the embryo transfer.”
The nurse moved the ultrasound wand over my lower abdomen. The screen flickered to life—black and white and grainy, shapes I couldn’t make sense of.
“See that?” Dr. Beaumont pointed to a small white dot on the screen. “That’s your uterus. We’re going to place the embryo right… there.”
I stared at the screen.
Watched as a tiny bright spot appeared—so small I almost missed it.
“That’s it,” Dr. Beaumont said softly. “That’s your embryo.”
My breath caught.
It was so small.
Just a cluster of cells. Barely visible. Barely anything at all.
But it was there.
Inside me.
“Now we wait,” Dr. Beaumont said, withdrawing the catheter slowly. “The embryo will either implant in the uterine lining over the next few days, or it won’t. There’s nothing you can do to influence the outcome. Just rest, stay hydrated, and try not to stress.”
She removed the speculum.
I felt the absence of pressure immediately—relief and emptiness all at once.
“You did beautifully,” Dr. Beaumont said, stripping off her gloves. “The nurse will help you sit up in a few minutes. Rest here for fifteen minutes, then you’re free to go.”
She left.
The nurse lingered, adjusting the blanket over my legs and checking the monitor one last time.
“You okay?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Good. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
She left too.
And I was alone.
I lay there on the exam table, staring at the ceiling, my hands pressed flat against my lower abdomen.
There was something inside me now.
Something that might become a baby.
Something that might become Amai Landry’s child.
Something that might become my way out of Mama’s house, out of debt, out of the life I’d been drowning in since Phillip left.
Or it might become nothing.
It might fail.
Just like the last time.
My chest tightened.
What if it doesn’t work?
What if my body fails again?
What if?—
The door opened.
I turned my head.
Amai stood in the doorway.
He wasn’t supposed to be back here.
This was the recovery area. Staff only. Patients only.
But there he was.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in a dark suit that clung to his body just right. His eyes found mine immediately.
“You’re not supposed to be back here,” I said.
He stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
“I know.”
He pulled the chair from the corner of the room and sat down next to the exam table.
Didn’t say anything.
Just sat.
I stared at him.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He looked at me for a long moment.
And then he said, very quietly:
“Because it’s my child too.”
The air left my lungs.
My child too.
Not the child.
Not a child.
My child.
Like it was already real.
Like it was already his.
Like this wasn’t just a contract anymore.
My heart fluttered.
I didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know how to respond to that.
So, I just nodded.
And he stayed.
We sat there in that sterile recovery room—him in the chair, me on the exam table, the faint hum of medical equipment in the background—and neither of us said anything.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Full of things we couldn’t name yet.
Things the contract didn’t account for.
Things that were already changing everything.
Fifteen minutes later, the nurse came back and cleared me to leave.
Amai stood when I did.
“I’ll bring the car around,” he said.
I nodded, still processing, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
By the time I made it to the clinic entrance—moving slowly, one hand pressed against my lower abdomen—Amai was already there, driver’s side door open, waiting.
I stopped on the curb.
“Where’s your driver?” I asked.
“Sent him home.”
“Why?”
He looked at me like the answer should be obvious.
“Because I’m taking you.”
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do that, but this was the second time he’d sent the driver home. I guess this was becoming our thing.
But my body was heavy, and my mind was fogged, and I didn’t have the energy to fight.
So, I just nodded and got in.
I slid into the seat.
He closed the door gently.
Walked around to the driver’s side.
Got in.
Started the engine.
And we drove.
Neither of us spoke.
The city passed by outside the window—familiar streets, familiar buildings, the same New Orleans I’d known my whole life.
But everything felt different now.
Because something had shifted.
In that recovery room.
In that moment when he’d said my child too.
The professional distance we’d been clinging to—the boundary the contract was supposed to maintain—had cracked.
And I didn’t think it could be repaired.
I glanced at him.
He was focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, his expression unreadable.
But I could feel it.
The weight of what had just happened.
The weight of what was coming.
I pressed my hand against my abdomen again.
Felt nothing.
But I knew it was there.
A cluster of cells.
A possibility.
A future neither of us had planned for.
And as we drove through the city in silence, I realized something that terrified me more than the procedure, more than the hormones, more than the possibility of failure:
I didn’t want this to be just a contract anymore.
I wanted it to be real.
And I was pretty sure Amai did too.
Dr. Beaumont’s instructions were simple. No heavy lifting, no strenuous exercise, stay hydrated, and get plenty of rest. And try not to stress.
Like that was possible when I had a cluster of cells inside me that might or might not decide to implant in my uterine lining over the next fourteen days. Like I could just turn off the part of my brain that was already spiraling, already calculating odds, already preparing for failure.
“We’ll do a blood test in two weeks,” Dr. Beaumont continued. “That will tell us definitively whether the transfer was successful. Until then, try to go about your normal routine.”
Normal.
Right.
Day One
I told myself I wouldn’t obsess.
Told myself I’d just rest, drink water, maybe catch up on the shows I’d been meaning to watch.
That lasted approximately four hours.
By evening, I was lying on my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every sensation in my body.
Was that cramping?
I pressed my hand against my lower abdomen.
It felt… normal. Maybe a little tender. But was that from the transfer or from something else?
I pulled out my phone and typed into Google: cramping after embryo transfer normal
The results flooded in.
Yes, mild cramping is normal.
Implantation cramping can occur 6-12 days after transfer.
Some women feel nothing at all.
I clicked on the first link. Then the second. Then the third.