Every single one.
Melissa carried a notebook and carefully wrote down nearly everything the doctor said.
Ryan sat beside me during blood draws and held my hand because he had known since childhood how much I hated needles.
At every ultrasound, they watched their daughter grow.
The first heartbeat.
The tiny hands.
The curve of her face.
Each milestone seemed to make Melissa glow brighter.
When we learned the baby was a girl, she rested her palm against my stomach and closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Thank you, Ivy.”
Her voice cracked.
I
laughed because I knew if I let myself cry, I wouldn’t stop.
“Don’t start,” I told her. “I actually put mascara on today.”
She laughed through her tears.
Those were the moments I held onto.
The happy ones.
Maybe that’s why I overlooked the others.
Two months before the birth, Ryan and Melissa invited me over to see the nursery.
The walls were painted a soft green. A white crib stood against one wall beneath a mobile made of tiny felt stars.
Melissa opened one drawer after another.
Inside were miniature pajamas, socks, blankets, and little dresses folded into perfect stacks.
“I know I went overboard,” she admitted, smiling. “I just couldn’t stop buying things.”
I smiled with her.
Then I noticed Ryan.
He was standing in the hallway.
He leaned against the doorframe and smiled, but he never stepped inside.
At the time, I thought perhaps the reality of
becoming a father overwhelmed him.
There were other little moments too.
Melissa sometimes texted late at night asking whether the baby had moved enough that day.
Ryan became quieter during appointments.
At several ultrasounds, I noticed him staring at his phone.
Whenever Melissa glanced toward him, he tilted the screen away.
Once, I asked him if something was wrong at work.
