Page 88 of Omega's Faith

"Alex." I take his hand, squeeze it. "Remember what Dr. Lowe said? Worrying about things we can't control doesn't help anyone."

Dr. Lowe, our marriage counselor, has become Alex's favorite person. He quotes her on everything. It’s annoying but also kind of cute. Alex has been taking the whole ‘personal growth’ thing incredibly seriously to the point where I half-wonder if it’s another addiction I’m going to have to nip in the bud.

Dr. Morrison enters and I give her a smile which she returns. She raises her eyebrows at Alex, clearly still not completely convinced by his new found sense of responsibility.

"How are we feeling, Jonah?" she asks, preparing the ultrasound equipment.

"Like a whale."

"You're beautiful," Alex says immediately, then flushes. "I mean, you don't look like a whale. You look... pregnant. Beautifully pregnant."

Dr. Morrison's lips twitch. In six months, she's watched Alex transform from the disaster she used to patch up to an anxious expectant father who asks at least thirty questions per appointment.

"This might be cold," she warns, squirting gel on my belly.

The moment the wand touches my skin, the baby kicks hard enough that we can see it from the outside.

"Active baby," Dr. Morrison observes, moving the wand around. "Let's see... there's the head, spine looks good, heart rate is perfect..."

On the screen, our baby appears in profile. Clear as day, we can see the nose, the lips, a tiny hand near the face.

"Oh my god," Alex breathes, squeezing my hand so tight ithurts. "That's... that's our baby."

"Would you like to know the sex?" Dr. Morrison asks.

Alex and I look at each other. We've been debating this for weeks.

"Yes," we say in unison, then laugh.

"Well, let me get a better angle..." She moves the wand, presses a few buttons. "Congratulations. You're having a boy."

A boy. A son.

Alex makes a sound I've never heard from him before, something between a laugh and a sob. When I look at him, there are tears streaming down his face.

"Alex?"

"A boy," he repeats, staring at the screen where our son is now sucking his thumb. "We're having a son."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm..." He stops, swallows hard. "My dad died when I was so young. I barely remember him. And now I'm going to be someone's father. Someone's dad. What if I mess it up? What if—"

Messit up. Notfuckit up. I’ve loosened up a little on the language stuff. I no longer flinch when I hear a curse word, but Alex has dialed it down anyway.

"You won't," I say firmly. "You're already devoted father, and he's not even born yet."

It's true. The dedication that Alex used to channel into getting drunk and making a mess has been channeled into getting read for our baby. He’s gone into full research mode. We’ve got three months to go until the birth and everything is ready. We have enough clothes to dress triplets.

But more than that, it's the way he talks to my belly every night, reading stories and playing music. He’s stayed completely sober for six months now, not even a mimosa at Diana's birthday last month.

"A son," he says again, wonder in his voice.

Dr. Morrison prints several pictures for us and Alex clutches them like they're made of gold.

As we leave the office, he's still staring at the ultrasound photos.

"We need to call my parents," I say. "And your Diana."