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"First ultrasound?" she asks, positioning the wand in her hand.

"Yes," I answer, my voice smaller than I'd like.

"Try to relax. Just breathe normally while I take some measurements." The wand presses against my skin, moving through the gel in slow, deliberate strokes.

The screen flickers with shadowy shapes I can't interpret. Marissa clicks buttons, freezes images, and takes measurements with practiced efficiency. The room fills with the soft tapping of computer keys and the quiet whir of the ultrasound machine.

"There's your uterus," she says, pointing to a curved shape on the screen. "And let's see if we can find that heartbeat..."

My own pulse hammers in my ears as she moves the wand slightly to the left. I strain to see what she's seeing, to make sense of the grainy shadows.

And then I hear it—a rapid, underwater whooshing sound that fills the room. A heartbeat, fast and strong.

Something shifts inside me. Not physically, but emotionally. That sound, that rapid flutter, belongs to my child. The abstract idea of pregnancy suddenly crystallizes into something real and alive.

"Good strong heartbeat," Marissa says, her fingers adjusting something on the machine. "Let me just make sure I get a clear view of..." She pauses, her brow furrowing slightly as she moves the wand again. "Hm."

My chest tightens. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, no. I just want to check something." She applies a bit more gel, moves the wand to a different spot.. "Let me get Dr. Thompson to take a look."

She taps a button on the machine, printing something, then wipes her hands on a paper towel. "I'll be right back. Just relax."

But relaxing is impossible when someone examines your body, furrows their brow, and leaves the room. My mind races through every catastrophic possibility. Genetic abnormality. Developmental problem. An abnormality of my uterus.

I force myself to breathe—in for four, out for four—the way I learned many years ago when I was anxious before performances. The minutes stretch on forever, each second an eternity of uncertainty.

When the door opens again, both Marissa and Dr. Thompson enter. Dr. Thompson's expression is unreadable as she takes Marissa's seat by the ultrasound machine.

"Let's have another look, shall we?" she says, picking up the wand. The cool gel shifts under the renewed pressure, and the screen flickers again with those mysterious shadows. Dr. Thompson studies it intently, then nods to herself.

"Tess," she says, looking at me over the rim of her glasses. "Congratulations. You're carrying twins."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Twins?" I choke out, my hands tightening on the paper sheet beneath me.

"Yes, twins," she confirms, angling the monitor so I can see better. Her finger points to two distinct shapes. "Here and here. Two separate amniotic sacs, which suggests fraternal twins."

"But—" My voice catches. "Are you sure?"

Dr. Thompson's smile is kind but amused. "Quite sure. And listen..."

She adjusts something on the machine, and suddenly the room fills with sound—not one rapid heartbeat, but two distinct patterns, slightly out of sync with each other. My eyes widen and heat floods my cheeks as the reality crashes over me.

Two babies. Not one.

My brain struggles to process this new information. One baby was already overwhelming—financially, logistically, emotionally. But two? Two of everything. Double the diapers, double the sleepless nights, double the college funds.

"Do twins run in your family?" Dr. Thompson asks, still moving the wand to capture different images.

"My grandmother was a twin," I manage to say, my voice soft. "I never thought..."

"Well, fraternal twins can have a genetic component, particularly on the mother's side." She freezes an image on the screen and points. "From what I can see, they both look healthy. Good size for six weeks."

"I can't—" I start, then stop, unsure what I was going to say. I can't handle this? I can't believe it? Both seem true in this moment.

Dr. Thompson pats my arm. "It's a lot to take in, I know. Twin pregnancies are considered higher risk, so we'll want to see you more frequently. You'll likely deliver earlier than a single baby—many twins come around 36 weeks instead of 40."

Her words wash over me in a wave of medical information that I know I should be absorbing but my mind is spinning. All I can think is: Charlie should be here.