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“Lev? What did you say?”
He swallowed hard. The muscles in his jaw worked. His laugh came out broken.
“I’m sorry. I got emotional, is all.”
His gaze dropped to avoid mine. Why was he avoiding the question? That only made me want the answer more.
“Please.” I squeezed his hand. “Say it in English, my lion. I need you to.”
For the briefest moment, I wasn’t sure he would. His throat bobbed, and tears gathered in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, failing to stop them from trailing down his cheeks.
Everything about that was incredibly beautiful. He’d been so strong for me these past weeks.
“I said, my girls Isabella, look at them.”
The words shattered me. He looked back at the screen. At the two tiny lives flickering there. I knew what they represented to him. They were his daughters. His dreams. His future family.
He repeated the phrase once more in Russian. This time, there was no attempt to hide the emotion. No attempt to be strong. Just pure and devastating awe.
Dr. Mansfield sighed and adjusted the image to show them clearer. She clicked a button before moving the wand.
“At this stage, we can see quite a bit. Here are their heads, and you can see their spines. Their heartbeats are strong.”
She clicked a button, and the sound of the heartbeats filled the room, rapid and rhythmic, like tiny drumbeats. It was a unique sound and profoundly moving. Pasha’s body shook next to mine like a leaf.
“They look so small,” I murmured.
I reached out and touched the screen lightly.
“They are,” the doctor said. “But they’re growing well.”
Pasha’s tears spilled over. The emotion was too much to contain. He leaned his forehead against mine, our hands intertwined.
“Thank you,” he choked.
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. The doctor printed out some images and handed them to us. Her expression was kind and understanding.
“I know this is a lot to take in. Take your time and let the receptionist know when you would like to schedule the appointment. Sooner is better.”
I looked at the images in my hand, the tiny forms of our daughters captured on paper. Without meaning to, we memorialized another major event in our lives.
Their first photo.
Walking out of the room was like walking through a haze. The fluorescent lights buzzed, and it seemed extra loud in my ears. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Babies, not one but two.
Two identical, perfectly formed little princesses. The images of their tiny hearts beating rapidly in unison on the ultrasound screen were burned into my memory.
Never in a million years did I expect her to agree to the ultrasound. I knew they would offer, but I’d prepared myself for her to say no. Prepared myself to swallow my need for closure.
But she had surprised me. And now I knew. I’d seen them. Would they look like their mummy? Who would they become if given the chance?
A vision of Isabella holding one while I held the other flashed through my head. I tried to focus, to ground myself in the present moment, but all I could do was lament the things we’d never get to do together.
I imagined holding them for the first time, feeling their tiny fingers wrap around mine. Teaching them how to dance, watching their first steps, hearing their first words. Birthdays, bedtime stories, giggly girls—all moments they would never experience.
As hard as I tried, I failed to hold it together in the room, and now I was struggling to keep my composure outside of it. I glanced at Isabella. Her face was set in a determined expression, and I felt a pang of guilt.
She needed me to be strong, to support her, but I was drowning in my own private hell. Why did seeing them make the ache so much deeper? Numbly, I followed her to the reception desk.
