The pregnancy came two years into the marriage. When I took the test and saw those two pink lines, I cried with happiness. When Marcus got home, I ran to tell him. He lifted me up in his arms, spinning me around the living room.
“We’re going to have a son! My heir!” he shouted, going crazy with joy. He was already talking about teaching the boy football, getting him into the best private schools, making him a champion just like him.
But the months of pregnancy became intense and suffocating. Marcus kept me on a very short leash. He controlled what I ate, how much weight I gained, and made sure I was doing specifically approved exercises. He bought dozens of books on pregnancy and child development. He insisted on going to every single doctor’s appointment. I thought it was concern, that he was being a dedicated father. I didn’t realize it was a terrifying obsession with perfection.
I remember clearly the last checkup before the birth.
The doctor did a routine ultrasound. He stared at the screen longer than usual, his brow furrowing. He called another colleague in to look. They spoke in low, hushed voices, pointing at things on the gray-and-white image that I didn’t understand. My heart started racing in my chest.
“Is there a problem, doctor?” I asked, my voice trembling. seeking Marcus’s hand. He didn’t take it.
The doctor turned toward us with that solemn, practiced face doctors put on when they have devastating news.
“We’ve identified some markers that may indicate a genetic condition. Nothing that puts the baby’s life at immediate risk, but it is important that you are prepared. The baby may be born with Down syndrome.”
The office went silent. It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. I looked at Marcus, seeking support, hoping he would grab my hand and tell me everything was going to be okay, that we would face whatever it was together.
