Chapter 11
Emma
Twenty weeks… halfway there
I'm walking into Preston & Associates feeling like I'm finally building something sustainable instead of slowly drowning. Also, I brought three jars of pickles. For emergencies.
The office is still surreal—my name on the door, natural light from an actual window, a desk that doesn't double as a filing cabinet. Sarah and Tom are presenting their independent case work for the first time, and I'm only moderately panicked about it.
Progress.
Maggie's already at her desk, reviewing the day's schedule with the efficiency of a military general.
"Morning," I say, setting down my briefcase. And the pickle jars.
She eyes the jars. "Three today?"
"One's a backup."
"For what emergency?"
"Pickle emergencies are real, Maggie."
"If you say so." She hands me coffee—decaf, automatically—and a stack of files. "Sarah and Tom arrive at nine. I've prepared orientation packets. Your first training session is the Henderson contract review."
"You're a miracle worker."
"I'm aware." She pauses. "How are you feeling?"
I'm twenty weeks pregnant, finally past the constant nausea phase, and actually capable of eating food that isn't pickles or plain toast. My stomach is starting to show—not obviously pregnant yet, more like "did she have a big lunch?" territory. I'm wearing looser blouses and hoping nobody notices.
"Better," I tell her. "The nausea finally eased up around eighteen weeks."
"Thank god. You were green for months."
"I was not green."
"You were absolutely green. I have photographic evidence from the Celtic Knot exhibition."
"Delete it immediately."
"Never." She grins. "But seriously—you look better. Healthier."
I do feel better. The merger was the right call. The support staff, the resources, the actual work-life balance—it's revolutionary. I'm working normal hours. Sleeping at night. Not having panic attacks over case deadlines.
And today, Miles and I have our twenty-week ultrasound. The big one. Where we find out if our blueberry-turned-raspberry is a boy or girl.
My phone buzzes. Miles.
Miles: Ready for today?
Me: Terrified.
Miles: Same. But excited terrified.
Me: Is that a thing?
Miles: It is now.
Sarah and Tom arrive at exactly nine AM, both looking eager and slightly nervous. Sarah's in her late twenties, sharp eyes, impressive résumé from a corporate firm in Miami. Tom's early thirties, methodical, came from Preston's litigation department.
"Emma." Sarah extends her hand professionally. "Thank you for this opportunity. I'm excited to learn from you."
"Same," Tom adds. "Your reputation precedes you."
I'm not sure if that's good or terrifying.
"Welcome to the team," I say, gesturing them into my office. "Maggie will get you set up with access credentials, case files, everything you need. Today we're reviewing the Henderson contract—it's complex but straightforward once you understand the structure."
They settle into the chairs across from my desk, notebooks out, ready to absorb information like legal sponges.
That's when Sarah notices the pickle jar.
On my desk. Open. Half-empty from this morning's "emergency."
She stares at it. Looks at me. Back at the jar.
"Is that..." she starts carefully.
"Pickles," I confirm. "Would you like one?"
"It's 9am."
"And?"
Tom's trying not to smile. "Are pickles a... regular thing?"
"Very regular." I take one from the jar, bite it with zero shame. "Crunchy. Salty. Vinegary. Perfect office snack."
Sarah and Tom exchange a glance—the universal "our new boss is eccentric" look.
"Moving on," I say briskly. "Henderson contract. Three hundred pages of commercial lease negotiations with competing buyout clauses. Let's dive in."
For the next two hours, we work through the contract line by line. Sarah catches details I missed. Tom asks questions that force me to explain my reasoning, which actually strengthens the arguments. They're good. Really good.
Maggie brings lunch—sandwiches from Seaside Sweets, because Julie's been mothering me since she found out about the pregnancy.
"She sent extra pickles," Maggie says, setting down the bag.
"Julie's a saint."
"Julie thinks you're insane."
"Also accurate."
Sarah's watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement. "How long have you two worked together?"
"Since Emma opened her practice," Maggie says. "I've seen her build this from nothing. Now she's smart enough to accept help."
"It only took a decade," I mutter.
"And a pregnancy," Maggie adds.
Sarah's eyes widen. Tom looks startled.
Right. They don't know yet.
"I'm pregnant," I say, since apparently we're doing this now. "Twenty weeks. Due in March. The pickles are a craving, not a personality disorder."
"Congratulations!" Sarah beams. "That's wonderful!"
"Explains the pickles," Tom adds. "My sister ate nothing but jalapenos when she was pregnant."
"That's horrifying."
"She said the same thing about pickles."
Fair point.
We finish lunch and dive back into work. By three PM, Sarah and Tom have absorbed an impressive amount of information and are already making suggestions on case strategy. I'm actually building a team instead of drowning alone.
It feels good. Really good.
At four PM, I pack up my briefcase—and my emergency pickle jar—and head out for the ultrasound appointment.
Miles is already in the parking lot when I arrive at Dr. Martinez's office, leaning against his car looking unfairly calm. He spots me and grins.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Absolutely not."
"Same."
We check in, and the waiting room is mercifully empty except for one pregnant woman who's approximately eight months along and reading a magazine with impressive focus.
"Emma Dawson?" the nurse calls.
We follow her back to the ultrasound room—familiar now, after our last appointment which was the twelve-week appointment that confirmed everything was progressing normally. One healthy heartbeat. One tiny baby. Everything perfect.
The ultrasound tech—a woman in her forties named Patricia—has me change into a gown and settle onto the exam table.
"Twenty weeks!" she says cheerfully. "The fun appointment. Ready to find out what you're having?"
"Yes," Miles and I say simultaneously.
"Excellent." She squirts cold gel on my stomach—still weird, still uncomfortable—and places the ultrasound wand. "Let's take some measurements first."
The monitor shows grainy black and white images that I'm supposed to understand but mostly look like abstract art. Patricia moves the wand around, clicking buttons, taking measurements.
Her expression shifts. Becomes focused.
She takes more measurements.
Then more.
Miles' hand tightens on mine. "Everything okay?"
"Let me just..." Patricia trails off, taking even more measurements. Then she sets down the wand. "I need to get Dr. Martinez. One moment."
She leaves before we can ask questions.
Miles and I stare at each other.
"What was that?" I whisper.
"I don't know."
"She looked concerned."
"She looked focused."
"That's the same thing!"
"Emma—"
"Something's wrong. Something's wrong with the baby and she wouldn't tell us—"
"We don't know that."
But his voice is tight. He's worried too.
Dr. Martinez enters with Patricia, both wearing professional smiles that could mean anything from "everything's fine" to "we need to discuss options."
My heart is racing. Miles' grip on my hand is almost painful.
"Emma, Miles." Dr. Martinez settles onto the stool, pulling up the ultrasound images on the monitor. "Everything looks great. But I want to do some additional measurements myself. Patricia caught something interesting."
"Interesting bad or interesting good?" I ask.
"Interesting good." She picks up the wand, applying more cold gel. "Ready to see your baby?"
We nod, hands clasped so tightly I'm losing circulation.
Dr. Martinez moves the wand across my stomach, and suddenly there's sound—the rapid whooshing heartbeat we heard at twelve weeks, strong and steady.
"There's your baby's heartbeat," she says. "Strong. Healthy. Perfect."
I exhale. Miles' shoulders drop slightly.
"Do you want to know the sex?" Dr. Martinez asks.
"Yes," we both say again.
She moves the wand, and the image shifts. "Okay. Baby A is..." She pauses for effect. "A boy."
A boy. We're having a boy.
Miles makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. I'm crying—these pregnancy hormones are going to be the death of me.
"A boy," I whisper.
"And." Dr. Martinez drags out the word as she is moving the wand again, a few inches over. "Let's check on his sibling."
The room goes silent.
"His what?" Miles asks.
Dr. Martinez's smile widens. "Baby B is a girl. Congratulations. You're having twins."
The world stops.
Twins.
TWINS.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "Did you say twins?"
"I did." Dr. Martinez is still moving the wand, showing us two distinct babies on the monitor. "See? Here's Baby A—your boy. And here's Baby B—your girl. Both measuring perfectly for twenty weeks. Healthy heartbeats. Everything looks excellent."
"But—" Miles sounds strangled. "We only heard one heartbeat at twelve weeks."
"It happens more often than you'd think," Dr. Martinez explains. "During early scans, one twin can hide behind the other. We only detected one heartbeat then, but now that they're bigger, we can see both clearly."
I'm staring at the monitor. Two babies. Two tiny humans. A boy and a girl.
"Are you sure?" I hear myself ask. "Like, absolutely sure there are two?"
"Positive. Look—two heads, two spines, two hearts beating independently."
Miles leans forward, squinting at the screen. "Is there any chance there are more? Hiding?"
Dr. Martinez laughs. "I can promise you—there are exactly two. No more hiding spots at this stage."
Two.
Twins.
Miles and I look at each other. His expression probably matches mine—shock mixed with terror mixed with something that might be excitement if I could feel anything besides numb.
"Congratulations!" Patricia adds. "You're getting the full package—one of each!"