We saw our baby before we heard our baby. The room was dim, cool, all quiet whirs and soft beeps. On the screen, the spine appeared first—white pearls threaded in a graceful arc—until the pearls slipped apart. A small darkness opened where brightness should have been, a pause in the music of bone. I felt the air leave my chest like a door pulled shut. David’s hand found mine;

his fingers were cold and shaking, the way mine would be if I let go. The sonographer slowed her movements, measuring, capturing, circling with a dotted line that looked too much like a target. I stared at that gap and thought the most foolish thing: if I could touch it, maybe it would close. 🤲



The doctor came in with calm shoulders and a steady voice. “We see a discontinuity,” he said, “perhaps a lesion along the lower spine. Sometimes it’s treatable. We’ll take this step by step.” His mouth kept moving, but all I could hear was the watery thud of our baby’s heart.

I looked at the screen again. Our child floated in black velvet, flexing the tiniest hand as if counting. One, two, three—then a curl of fingers against the chest, a gesture so tender it felt like an answer. I didn’t know to what, only that it answered me. ✨