Chapter 6
Emma
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and fake lavender air freshener, a combination that makes my stomach turn.
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, filling out forms that ask increasingly invasive questions about my medical history, my family's medical history, whether I've ever had this condition or that.
I leave the "father's medical history" section blank.
Poppy sits beside me, her knee bouncing in that nervous way she has when she's trying to appear calm but is struggling.
She showed up at my apartment this morning with decaf coffee and a muffin I couldn't eat, and hasn't left my side since. I don't know what I did to deserve her, but I'm grateful for her every day.
"Emma Sullivan?" A nurse in purple scrubs appears in the doorway, holding a tablet.
I stand on legs that feel unsteady. Poppy stands with me, her hand finding mine, and together we follow the nurse down a hallway lined with informational posters about prenatal vitamins and healthy pregnancies.
The examination room is small and aggressively cheerful. Yellow walls. A poster showing fetal development week by week. An ultrasound machine in the corner that looks like something from a sci-fi movie.
"Go ahead and have a seat," the nurse says, gesturing to the examination table covered in crinkly paper. "Dr. Byers will be with you shortly. She'll want to do an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and check on the baby’s development."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The nurse leaves, and the door clicks shut with a finality that makes my heart race.
"It's going to be okay," Poppy says, still holding my hand.
"You don't know that."
"I know you. And I know you're going to figure this out, no matter what the doctor says."
I want to believe her. Want to believe that I'm still the person who has always found a way to solve problems without asking for help.
But sitting here in this exam room, wearing a paper gown that doesn't quite close all the way, I feel about as far from that person as you can get.
The door opens again, and a woman in her forties enters, dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a white coat over navy scrubs.
"Emma?" she extends her hand, and I nod and shake it. Her grip is warm and firm.
She turns toward Poppy. "I'm Dr. Byers. And you must be—"
"Poppy. I'm her best friend."
"Nice to meet you both." Dr. Byers settles onto a rolling stool, pulling up my file on a tablet. "So, you took a home pregnancy test that came back positive?"
"Yes." My voice sounds small.
"And when was your last menstrual period?"
I have to think about it, counting backward through the chaos of the past few weeks. "Mid-March, I think? Around the fifteenth?"
Dr. Byers nods, tapping something into her tablet. "That would make you about eight weeks along, give or take. We'll be able to get a better estimate with the ultrasound." She looks up, her expression kind. "How are you feeling? Any nausea, fatigue?"
"Both. A lot of both."
"That's normal for the first trimester. It should start to ease up in a few weeks." She stands, moving to the ultrasound machine. "Let's take a look and see how everything’s going, okay?"
I lie back on the examination table, and Poppy moves to stand beside me. Her hand finds mine again, squeezing tight. The paper crinkles beneath me as Dr. Byers adjusts the table, positioning the ultrasound screen so I can see it.
"This is going to be a transvaginal ultrasound," Dr. Byers explains, pulling on gloves. "It's the best way to get clear images this early. You'll feel some pressure, but it shouldn't hurt."
I nod, staring at the ceiling tiles and trying to breathe. This is just information. Just confirmation of what I already know. Then I can make a plan, figure out next steps, regain some kind of control.
The pressure is uncomfortable but bearable. I focus on Poppy's hand in mine, on the steady rhythm of my breathing, on anything other than what's happening.
Then Dr. Byers goes very still.
"There we go," she says quietly, her eyes fixed on the screen.
I turn my head to look, and my heart stops.
The image is grainy, black and white, hard to interpret. But in the center, there's a tiny shape. Barely there. And inside it, a flicker of movement.
"That's the heartbeat," Dr. Byers says, and there's warmth in her voice. "Right there. See it?"
I see it. A rapid flutter, fast as a hummingbird's wings. Proof that this is real, that there's something alive inside me, something that's going to grow and change and turn my entire world upside down.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Dr. Byers moves the wand slightly, adjusting the angle, and her brow furrows. She leans closer to the screen, her expression shifting from pleased to ultra-focused.
"Interesting," she murmurs.
Interesting. That's not a word you want to hear from a doctor.
"What?" My voice comes out sharp with panic. "What's interesting?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Just keeps staring at the screen, moving the wand in small, deliberate motions. The silence stretches, and Poppy's grip on my hand tightens until my knuckles ache.
Then Dr. Byers turns the screen toward me more fully, pointing at the image.
"See that?" she says, indicating the flickering shape I saw before.
"Yes."
"And see that?" She points to another spot on the screen, slightly to the left of the first.
I stare at where she's pointing, trying to make sense of the grainy black-and-white image. There's another shape. Similar to the first. And inside it, another flicker of movement.
Another heartbeat.
Oh. My. God.
"It's early, but they're both strong," Dr. Byers says, and there's genuine delight in her voice now. "Congratulations, Emma. You're having twins."
The word echoes in my head.
Twins. Poppy's hand goes slack in mine.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at those two tiny, flickering shapes on the screen.
Two.
Not one baby. Two babies.
Two heartbeats. Two lives. Two futures I'm responsible for creating, nurturing, and protecting.
"Are you—" My voice cracks. I have to swallow, try again. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure." Dr. Byers sounds pleased, like she's delivering good news instead of the end of every plan I've made for my life.
"See? Two separate gestational sacs, two separate heartbeats.
They're fraternal, not identical. And based on the measurements, I'd say you're about eight weeks and three days along. "
"I know this might be overwhelming," Dr. Byers continues, still in that cheerful, professional tone. "Especially if you weren't expecting it. But twin pregnancies are more common than people think, and with good prenatal care, the vast majority result in healthy babies."
Healthy babies. Two of them.
I'm going to have two babies.
The panic hits like a wave, stealing my breath. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark, and I'm vaguely aware of Dr. Byers' concerned face swimming into view above me.
"Emma? Emma, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breaths. That's it."
I try to force air into my lungs even though my chest feels like it's being crushed by an elephant. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
It doesn't help.
Because this isn't something I can breathe through. This isn't anxiety or stress or fear that will pass if I just calm down.
This is real.
Two babies. Growing inside me. Right this very minute. Two children who are going to need a mother who has her shit together, who can provide for them, who isn't falling apart in a doctor's office because the scale of this responsibility just doubled.
I can't do this.
The thought rises sharp and clear through the panic. I can't do this. Not alone.
One baby, I might have managed. But two?
Two babies mean double the childcare costs. Double the sleepless nights. Double the time away from work, double the strain on my already limited resources. Two babies mean I'll need a bigger apartment, more money, more help.
More than I can provide by myself.
The dream I've been building for a year, the proof that I can make something of myself without my father's help—it's over.
And I'm going to end up exactly where I swore I'd never be. Dependent on a man. Accepting his money, his help, his resources, until slowly, inevitably, I become a supporting character in my own life.
Just like my mother.
"Emma." Poppy's voice cuts through the spiral, sharp and insistent. "Hey. Look at me."
I force my eyes to focus on her face. She's pale, shocked, but there's steel in her expression. The same look she gets when she's about to go on stage, when she's nervous but determined to perform anyway.
"Breathe," she says firmly. "We're going to figure this out. Okay? I promise you."
"How?" The word comes out broken. "Poppy, how am I supposed to—"
"We'll figure it out," she repeats, and her hand is back in mine. "One step at a time. But right now, you need to breathe."
Dr. Byers is watching me with concern, probably trying to decide if she needs to call someone. If this level of panic warrants psychiatric intervention.
I take a breath. Another. The room slowly comes back into focus.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "I just—this is a lot."
"It's completely understandable," Dr. Byers says gently. "Finding out you're pregnant is a big deal. Finding out you're having twins is even bigger." She pauses. "Do you have support? A partner, family?"
A partner. The father of these babies is my dad's best friend, a billionaire who could buy this entire medical building without batting an eye.
Who I slept with exactly once in a hotel room in Florence and then walked away from because I was terrified of exactly this.
Of needing him. Of losing myself to his ability to solve every problem with money.
And now I don't have a choice.
"It's complicated," I say, which is possibly the understatement of the century.