Before I could speak, the door opened.
Dr. Meredith walked in, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes moved across the room—the folder, the pen, Amber’s smile, my trembling body.
“I prefer my exam rooms uncrowded,” she said sharply.
“We’re almost done with some legal business,” Nathan replied. “Just confirm the pregnancy. I need it for the record.”
Dr. Meredith said nothing. She pulled on gloves, applied cold gel to my stomach, and began the ultrasound.
I closed my eyes.
The machine hummed.
Then she stopped.
Her brow tightened.
“Mr. Brooks,” she said, her voice turning hard, “before your wife signs anything, you need to look at this monitor.”
Nathan sighed like an irritated king. He stepped closer, sipping his espresso.
“How far along is the bastard?” he asked coldly.
Dr. Meredith turned the screen toward him.
“Your wife is not six weeks pregnant,” she said. “She is not seven. Based on fetal measurements and anatomical markers, she is approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”
The room went silent.
Twelve.
The word struck my chest like a bell.
Nathan blinked.
“That’s impossible.”
“These are medical measurements,” Dr. Meredith said. “They are not opinions. And they do not care about your legal documents.”
Amber froze near the door. The silver pen slipped from her fingers and hit the floor.
“But he had a vasectomy two months ago!” she blurted. “I booked the clinic myself!”
“Exactly,” Dr. Meredith replied, turning her sharp gaze toward Amber. “And this pregnancy began before that procedure took place.”
Something broke loose inside me.
Not forgiveness.
Not peace.
Vindication.
Nathan gripped the machine. “The dates are wrong. The machine is wrong.”
