𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

C.28

Valentine

The waiting room smelled like hand sanitizer and lavender. Someone had put a diffuser on the front desk next to a bowl of peppermints, like essential oils could undo the anxiety of sitting in a paper gown under fluorescent lights waiting for a stranger to tell you the shape of your future.

Valentine sat on the exam table with her hands pressed between her knees, staring at a poster on the wall about fetal development. Week by week, illustrated in soft pastels. Little beans turning into little humans. She was somewhere around the eight week mark according to the app she'd downloaded at two in the morning three days ago while lying on the bathroom floor because the nausea had knocked her out of bed again.

The door opened and Dr. Achebe came in. She was tall, calm, natural hair pulled back, reading glasses low on her nose. The kind of doctor who looked at you like a person and not a chart.

"Valentine. Good to see you again." She sat on the rolling stool and pulled up the file on her tablet. "So we ran your bloodwork and confirmed with the ultrasound. You are approximately eight weeks along."

Eight weeks. Two months. The math landed in Valentine's chest like a brick. Two months meant she'd been pregnant before Haiti. Before the fight. Before the jet. Before any of it. She'd been carrying this baby through every scream, every slammed door, every word she couldn't take back.

"Now," Dr. Achebe continued, her tone shifting slightly. Not alarming. Just careful. "I do want to discuss something we found on the ultrasound. The placenta is sitting lower than we'd like at this stage. It's positioned close to the cervix, which is a condition we call placenta previa. At eight weeks this isn't uncommon and in many cases it resolves on its own as the uterus grows. But it does place you in a higher risk category."

Valentine blinked. "Higher risk meaning what?"

"Meaning we need to monitor you more frequently. You'll need to avoid heavy lifting, strenuous activity, and prolonged stress. If the placenta doesn't migrate upward as the pregnancy progresses, there's a risk of bleeding, and in more serious cases it can complicate delivery. But we're early. There's a very good chance this corrects itself."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we adjust the plan. Possible bed rest later in the pregnancy. Potential C section delivery. But Valentine, I want to be clear. This is manageable. Plenty of women with this condition carry healthy babies to term. The most important thing right now is reducing stress and staying on top of your appointments."

Reducing stress. Valentine almost laughed. Her entire life was stress. Stress was the foundation her house was built on.

Dr. Achebe set the tablet down and looked at her. Really looked. The way people do when they're about to ask something they already know the answer to.

"I want to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly. Do you want to keep this pregnancy?"

The question hung in the air.

Valentine's eyes burned. She pressed her lips together hard and looked at the ceiling because looking at the doctor meant crying and crying meant feeling and feeling meant all of it would come pouring out. Quincey's voice saying *I'm more ready to be your husband.* His hands teaching her how to make rice. The way he'd press his palm to her stomach at night like he was already waiting for someone to be in there. They were supposed to do this together. Married. Planned. Ready. Not like this. Not alone in a paper gown with a low placenta and a man who didn't know he was a father again.

She didn't know if she wanted to be a baby mama. That word tasted wrong in her mouth. Quincey had always said they'd be married first. He'd looked her in the eyes and said *I can wait until we're married to have us some kids.* And she'd believed him. She'd believed in the future he was building for them because he was the first person who ever made a future sound safe.