4. Chapter 4
Present
A soft knock sounds on the door as a familiar face pops around the corner.
“Let’s see how the baby is doing,” Dr. Sinclair says in her warm voice as she walks over to the sink.
She’s been with me since the beginning, when I showed up at my first appointment in tears.
I was scared and still in denial about the two pink lines that kept appearing.
And boy, did I make sure it wasn’t a fluke.
In two days, I took twelve tests—a variety of styles and brands.
Each one produced the same result: pregnant .
With her hands freshly washed, Dr. Sinclair comes to my side and gently places one on my forearm. Goosebumps erupt at her cool touch.
“Go ahead and lie back, Savannah.”
The paper sheet crinkles beneath me as I shift, and she helps me scoot lower on the bed.
My belly is large and in charge, making even the smallest moments feel like a chore.
Once I’m in the position Dr. Sinclair wants, I grit my teeth and press my hand to my side, feeling the tiny thump against my ribs.
I swallow hard. “I swear my baby thinks my ribs are a luxury suite, and they’re on an all-inclusive vacation.”
She chuckles softly as her hands press against my side. “Would you give your mama a break?”
The baby pauses, listening to the doctor as its tiny feet still. “I’m going to need you to do that at two in the morning when this jellybean decides my bladder is the dance floor of a rave and passes out in my ribcage.”
“That’s a good sign,” she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a retractable tape measure.
“What? That my baby’s going to grow up and party at raves?”
“No,” she says with a laugh. “That your baby is active. It means he’s healthy.”
I smile softly, ignoring the pronoun she uses.
Since I still haven’t found out the sex of the baby, she warned me that she’d use different pronouns when talking about the baby.
It doesn’t mean that it’s correct. I appreciate that, because calling my baby an “it” always feels weird.
While she’s taken to saying “he,” I switch it up, but mostly refer to my little jellybean as “she.”
“I know. It’d be nice to get some sleep before I have a newborn keeping me up all night.”
As Dr. Sinclair goes through her routine of checking my vitals and measuring my stomach, I reflect on what she told me.
My baby is healthy.
Healthy. A small comfort spreads warmth through my chest. Pregnancy is a constant fear of the unknown.
Every ache and pain immediately trigger the concern that something is wrong.
I’ve spent hours lying in fear, worrying that something is going to happen that’s out of my control.
One night, I made the late-night decision to internet search my symptoms. The search led me down a rabbit hole of the absolute worst-case scenarios.
When I made an appointment the next day, concerned about what I was feeling, I was told it was gas. Talk about an embarrassing discovery.
The sound of the tape measure retracting snaps me back to reality.
“You’re measuring right on track,” Dr. Sinclair says, typing on her laptop.
“Blood pressure looks good, weight gain has been steady—maybe a little more than I’d like to see in between appointments, but nothing to raise any alarm at this time.
If you can, try to get outside for a little walking.
I know it’s hot, but staying active will help with delivery.
” I nod as she places her computer down and pushes her stool next to me.
“How have you been feeling other than uncomfortable?”
Large. Exhausted. Lonely. Scared.
“Tired,” I say instead. “And my feet are starting to swell pretty badly. By the end of the day, I don’t even recognize my ankles.”
“That’s normal at this stage. Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water and elevating your feet when you can,” she reassures me. “Do you need any doctor’s notes for work? Are you able to get a stool under your desk?”
“I should be able to get one, but if they give me any issues, I’ll get a note at the next appointment.”
She nods before a serious expression takes over her face, causing me to sit up. “How’s your support system, Savannah? Any changes? Anyone helping out?”
Chewing on my thumbnail, my mind races as I hesitate to answer.
My support system is…complicated. I have people who offer to help, but I’m too ashamed to take them up on it.
Chloe offered to be there for me, but she’s busy adjusting to life in Cleveland after her boyfriend was drafted to play professional baseball.
My aunt calls when she can, but she just got married and moved to a new state.
My cousin sends threatening texts about moving to Texas to live with me, but I can’t let him uproot his life for mine.
At the end of the day, it’s just me—and my growing baby. With all the conversations I have with her, she’s going to come out knowing all her mom’s secrets.
If I were honest with myself, there’s one person I could call. But I won’t do that to him. I told him months ago that this wasn’t his problem, and I don’t want to go back on my word now.
Dr. Sinclair gives me a knowing look but doesn’t press. She knows my situation. Early on, I had a breakdown right here in this room, and she promised I wouldn’t be alone. As my doctor, she would be here for me, day or night.
“We’ll do a growth scan at thirty-two weeks to check the positioning and fluid levels. Then, we’ll start discussing birth plans. You’re getting so close, Savannah.”
“Birth plans?”
“Have you given any thought to what you want your labor to look like?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t even realize there were different plans. I assumed I would show up and pop the baby out.”
She smiles, tapping my forearm. “I’ll give you some reading material on different birth plans. I also recommend taking a birthing class. The hospital offers free ones. I’ll make sure they include the paperwork for those, too.”
Nodding, I swallow down the panic bubbling to the surface. At thirty weeks, I can’t believe I’m this far along and will be delivering a baby in ten weeks or less. There’s still so much I’m not prepared for.
Silence settles over the room as I wait for Dr. Sinclair to tell me our appointment’s over. It feels like we’ve discussed everything we typically go over, but she doesn’t move. “Before you go,” she starts, offering me a soft smile. “Have you opened the envelope yet?”
My stomach twists. She’s only mentioned the envelope one other time.
I shake my head. “No, not yet.”
Studying me carefully, I see the red flags waving. “You’ve had it for, what, nine weeks?”
“Eleven,” I admit, staring past her, avoiding her gaze.
With a slow exhale, her voice is gentle but firm. “Can I ask why?”
My throat tightens. Why hadn’t I opened it?
I was so positive I wanted to know the sex of my baby.
Not only because I wanted to have one less surprise in my life, but also because I wanted to be prepared for when he or she arrived.
I needed certainty in a sea of unknowns.
But as I lay on the bed with the ultrasound tech for my anatomy scan, I panicked.
Knowing the sex made everything so real, and it is real.
I feel the evidence of that daily with belly rolls or kicks to the ribs.
The second I opened that envelope and read the results, everything would be real. Real in a way I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Which is silly, because in ten weeks or less, ready or not, I’m going to have a baby to take care of.
The tech didn’t pressure me. Instead, she simply wrote the information down on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope.
I could’ve found out instantly. I could have unsealed it in my car, at breakfast the next morning, or on one of the sleepless nights, but instead, I keep it hanging on my fridge, mocking me daily.
I force a small shrug, unable to find the words to voice my thoughts.
Dr. Sinclair scoots closer. “Does this not feel real yet, Savannah? I don’t want to be too harsh, but this is happening. You’re going to have a baby.”
The baby kicks– hard –and I wince. Every ache, every sleepless night, every moment of staring at my body in the mirror and seeing the changes, wondering how it’s possible to hold so much life inside of me—that’s all real.
But everything else?
My future? The idea of being someone’s mother when I still need one myself? Doing this alone and turning into my mom?
That part feels like a dream I haven’t woken from yet.
“You’re allowed to be scared. Most young moms are. Heck, I have older women who are still scared of becoming a mom. This is a huge change for anyone. And from what you’ve told me, you’ve been carrying this load all on your own.”
My throat burns as I fight the urge to cry. “It’s not that I don’t love this baby.”
“I know,” she says sympathetically. “Love and fear can coexist. I can recommend a good therapist—someone you can talk to. Someone who can help you share the thoughts that keep tormenting you.”
Knowing I don’t have the budget for a therapist, I shake my head. “I guess I need to have some hard conversations with myself.”
Dr. Sinclair nods, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “You’re a strong woman, Savannah. Take care of yourself. Have those tough conversations. And when you’re ready, open the letter. I know how excited you were to find out the gender of your baby. Find that excitement again.”
Nodding, I give a tight, reassuring smile.
Maybe someday soon, I’ll open the envelope.
But not today.
Rain beats against the window as I stare out into the gloomy night. A fuzzy blanket drapes over my shoulders as Dr. Sinclair’s words from earlier repeat.
Have I opened the envelope?
Does this not feel real?