Chapter 95 Eight Weeks
Harper's POV,
The first ultrasound was scheduled for a Wednesday morning at ten AM, which meant Crew had to miss practice.
"Coach is going to kill me," he said in the car.
"Coach can survive one missed practice. This is more important."
"I know. But we're in a playoff push and—"
"Crew. This is our baby's first ultrasound. You're not missing this."
He squeezed my hand. "You're right. I'm not missing this."
Both our mothers had flown in the day before. Susan was staying with us, sleeping on our couch. Diane had gotten a hotel room but was meeting us at the clinic. The waiting room was going to be crowded.
We arrived to find Diane already there, holding two coffees and looking nervous.
"I got here early," she said, hugging me. "Couldn't sleep. Too excited."
"Same," Susan admitted, appearing behind us. "I've been awake since four AM."
The receptionist called my name. We all stood up—me, Crew, both moms—like a small parade heading to the exam room.
The ultrasound technician, a woman in her forties named Patricia, looked amused. "Full family support today?"
"Is that okay?" I asked. "I know it's usually just the parents—"
"It's fine. We'll make it work." She gestured to the exam table. "Harper, if you can lie down and lift your shirt. This is going to be cold."
She wasn't kidding. The gel was freezing. I flinched.
Crew grabbed my hand, standing on my right side. Both moms positioned themselves at the foot of the table where they could see the screen.
Patricia pressed the ultrasound wand against my stomach, moving it slowly. The screen showed grainy black and white images that meant nothing to me.
"There," Patricia said, pointing. "That's the gestational sac. And inside—" She clicked a button, zoomed in. "That's your baby."
I stared at the screen. There was something there. A tiny blob. A grain of rice with a flickering center.
"The flickering is the heartbeat," Patricia explained. "Nice and strong. Measuring at 162 beats per minute. Exactly what we want to see at eight weeks."
"That's our baby?" Crew's voice cracked.
"That's your baby."
The room went quiet except for the swooshing sound of the heartbeat through the machine speakers.
I couldn't look away from the screen. That tiny flickering blob was a human. Our human. Growing inside me right now.
"Oh my god," Susan whispered, crying. "That's my grandchild."
Diane was crying too, one hand covering her mouth.
Patricia took measurements, clicking buttons and typing notes. "Everything looks perfect. Baby is measuring right on track for eight weeks. Due date looks like June 12th."
"June 12th," I repeated. "That's so specific."
"Due dates are always estimates. Baby will come when baby's ready." She clicked more buttons. "Would you like printouts?"
"Yes," all four of us said simultaneously.
Patricia laughed. "I'll print extras."
She handed us each a small black and white photo—grainy, barely recognizable as human, but somehow the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Crew stared at his copy like it might disappear. "This is real. This is actually happening."
"Did you think I was lying about being pregnant?"
"No. But seeing it makes it—" He gestured helplessly at the screen. "Real."
After the appointment, we went to lunch at a café near the clinic. Both moms ordered celebratory mimosas. Crew and I stuck with water.
"Have you thought about names?" Diane asked.
"Mom, we're eight weeks pregnant. We haven't thought about anything yet."
"But you should start thinking! Names are important. You can't just pick something last minute."
"We have seven months to pick something," Crew pointed out.
"Seven months goes fast. Trust me." Susan pulled out her phone. "I've been making a list. Just suggestions. You don't have to use any of them."
"You made a list of baby names?"
"I got excited! Sue me." She showed me her notes app—about forty names organized by gender. "I was thinking for a girl, maybe something classic. Elizabeth. Margaret. Charlotte. For a boy, maybe something strong. James. William. Henry."
"Those are all very British," I observed.
"They're classic!"
Diane jumped in. "What about family names? Harper, you could do Susan for a girl. Or Richard—" She stopped. "Oh. Sorry. I forgot about your father."
"It's fine. And no. We're not naming a baby Richard."
"What about Diane for a girl?" Diane suggested hopefully.
"Mom—"
"I'm just saying! Diane is a perfectly good name. And it would honor me. Your mother who raised you and supported you and is incredibly excited about this grandchild."
Crew was laughing silently beside me.
"We'll consider all suggestions," I said diplomatically. "But we're not deciding anything until we know the gender."
"When will you find out?" Susan asked.
"Anatomy scan is at twenty weeks. So three more months."
"Three months! Harper, that's forever."
"That's literally how pregnancy works. You have to wait."
Both moms spent the rest of lunch debating names, nursery colors, and whether we should find out the gender or keep it a surprise. Crew and I just ate our sandwiches and let them plan our lives.
"They're excited," Crew whispered.
"They're overwhelming."
"Same thing with mothers."
After lunch, we drove both moms back to the apartment. Susan was flying home that evening. Diane was staying two more days to "help with things" though I wasn't sure what things she meant.
At the door, Susan hugged me tight. "I'm so proud of you, honey. You're going to be an amazing mother."
"What if I'm not? What if I screw this up?"
"Then you'll figure it out and do better. That's what parenting is. Screwing up and course correcting." She pulled back. "But you won't screw up. You're kind and smart and capable. This baby is lucky to have you."
After she left for the airport, Diane settled on our couch with tea.
"Can I ask you something?" she said to Crew. "And I don't mean this in a judgmental way. I'm genuinely asking."
"Okay..."
"How are you handling this? The pregnancy. With your recovery. Is it stressful?"
Crew set down his water. "Yes. It's stressful. But I'm managing. Therapy twice a week. Meetings three times a week. Talking to my sponsor daily. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do."
"Good. Because Harper needs you present. Not just physically present. Actually present. And I know addiction is a disease. I know it's not a choice. But—" She paused. "I need to know you're going to be there for her. For both of them."
"Mom—" I started.
"It's okay," Crew said. "She's allowed to ask." He looked at Diane. "I can't promise I'll never struggle. Recovery isn't linear. But I can promise I'll keep showing up. Keep doing the work. Keep being honest when things get hard. That's all I can guarantee."
"That's all I'm asking for." Diane smiled. "You're a good man, Crew. I'm glad Harper found you."
That night, after Diane went to bed in our room (she'd insisted we take the couch), Crew and I lay in the dark talking quietly.
"Your mom was right to ask," he said. "About whether I can handle this."
"You can handle this."
"What if I can't? What if the baby comes and I'm not ready? What if the stress triggers something?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. Like everything else." I turned to face him. "Crew, you're allowed to be scared. I'm scared too. But we're in this together. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to try."
He pulled me closer. "I'm going to be a dad. That still doesn't feel real."
"Look at the ultrasound photo. That makes it real."
"That looks like a blob."
"That's our blob. Our tiny human blob."
He laughed quietly. "Our tiny human blob. Due June 12th. Who might be named Diane if your mom gets her way."
"We are absolutely not naming this baby Diane."
"What about Richard?"
"Crew Lawson, I swear to god—"
"I'm kidding. Obviously we're not naming our child Richard." He paused. "What do you want to name it? For real?"
"I don't know yet. Something meaningful. Something that means something to us."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. We have seven months to figure it out."
We fell asleep on the couch, uncomfortable and cramped, but somehow content. The ultrasound photo was on the coffee table. Our blob. Our baby. Our future.
Eight weeks down. Thirty-two to go.
And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines, I felt something other than terror.
I felt ready.