Chapter 7 - The Heartbeat
Tuesday afternoon arrived, bright and cold.
I sat on the exam table in Dr. Chen’s office, wearing a paper gown, my bare belly exposed to the cool air.
At precisely 1:58 p.m., a soft knock came at the door.
Elias walked in. He was wearing a dark gray wool coat over a simple black sweater—no suit, no tie, no corporate armor. He looked hesitant, almost shy, as he stepped into the room holding a small cup of hot decaf tea for me.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the plastic guest chair in the corner.
“Yes, Elias. Sit down,” I said gently.
Dr. Chen walked in a minute later, clutching her digital tablet. “Good afternoon, Adelaide! And you must be Elias.”
Elias stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Yes, ma'am. I’m... I’m the father.”
“Wonderful,” Dr. Chen smiled warmly, applying a glob of cold clear gel onto my stomach. “Let’s see how our little guy is doing today.”
She placed the ultrasound transducer onto my abdomen and pressed a few buttons on the monitor.
Instantly, the dark room filled with a loud, rhythmic sound:
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
It sounded like a galloping horse—fast, powerful, and brimming with life.
I looked over at Elias.
He had stood up from his chair without realizing it. He was staring at the black-and-white screen, his mouth slightly open, his hand gripping the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.
On the screen, the fuzzy white outline of a baby was clearly visible—a small head, tiny hands curled near his face, and a powerful little heart flickering like a bright star in his chest.
“Vitals are perfect,” Dr. Chen announced cheerfuly. “Strong heart rate of 148 beats per minute. Weight is right on track at four pounds, two ounces.”
Elias stepped closer to the table, his eyes never leaving the monitor screen. Tears were freely rolling down his face, completely unheeded.
“That’s... that’s him?” Elias whispered, his voice trembling violently. “That’s our son?”
“That’s him, Elias,” I murmured, my own eyes welling with tears.
Without thinking, Elias reached out and gently laid his large, warm hand over mine where it rested on the edge of the exam table. He didn't pull away this time. And for the first time in seven months, I didn't pull away either.
He squeezed my fingers gently, leaning down until his forehead almost touched my shoulder.
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“He’s perfect, Adelaide,” Elias wept softly against my skin. “He’s absolutely perfect.”
And in that small exam room, listening to the thunderous heartbeat of our unborn child, the last wall between us began to crumble into dust.
