Chapter 3 - What He Could Hear
Adrian was waiting in the clinic lobby when I arrived Tuesday morning, holding a paper cup of coffee he hadn't touched. He stood when he saw me but didn't cross the room. I'd asked him to wait for an invitation, and he had. That simple fact felt strange enough to make me suspicious of it, which was probably a fair measure of where our marriage stood.
Dr. Shah called me back first. I explained that my estranged husband was in the waiting area and asked whether he could join us for part of the visit. She asked whether I felt comfortable, not whether he had a right to be there, and I was grateful for the distinction. She checked my blood pressure, asked about sleep and movement, and reminded me to call if I noticed anything concerning.
When Adrian entered, he looked larger than the room allowed. He stayed beside the wall until I pointed to a chair. Dr. Shah introduced herself, explained what she was going to do, and placed the Doppler against my stomach. A rush of static filled the room. Then came the rapid rhythm I'd learned to recognize, the sound that had made this pregnancy real long before a photograph could.
Adrian covered his mouth. I watched his eyes fill, but he didn't turn the moment into a declaration about us. He listened until Dr. Shah finished, then asked if the heartbeat sounded normal. She explained that it did for what she was checking and answered two practical questions about the final weeks. When he started a third, he glanced at me first. I nodded. That mattered more than the question itself.
Outside, we walked toward the parking garage without touching. "Thank you," he said. I told him she moved most often after dinner and sometimes lodged a foot so firmly beneath my ribs that I had to stand up. He smiled at the image, then grew serious. "I missed thirty-two weeks." "You did," I said. "You don't get them back by making the next few about your guilt."
His driver waited beside a black sedan. Mine was a slightly dented hatchback I used for carrying fabric boards and small fixtures. Adrian offered to have someone replace it with a safer vehicle. I told him it was serviced regularly, had passed inspection, and was perfectly capable of carrying a car seat. "I was trying to help," he said. "Then ask what help I need," I replied. "Don't begin with a purchase."
He thought about that. "What help do you need?" I considered lying out of pride. Instead, I said I would eventually need someone to collect two boxes of books from a high shelf at the mansion, and that I could use a second opinion on a stroller I'd been researching.
He wrote nothing down, issued no instructions, and asked me to send the model when I was ready. It was the first useful exchange we'd had in months.
By afternoon, the stakes of being seen together had become obvious. A lifestyle reporter emailed Evelyn asking whether Carter & Reed would confirm that Mara Moretti, wife of businessman Adrian Moretti, was expecting a child.
Someone had recognized us outside the clinic. The inquiry contained no photograph, only a request for comment, but my hand tightened around the phone anyway. I wanted our daughter to have a name before strangers assigned her a role.
I called Adrian directly. He sounded appalled and promised to speak to his communications team. "No announcement without my agreement," I said. "And don't threaten the reporter or make this some public contest." He started to explain the importance of protecting his family's reputation, then stopped. "I was about to make it about reputation," he admitted. "I'll tell my team not to comment. What do you want your office to say?"
"Nothing for now." Evelyn agreed to direct any press requests to one email address and keep client work separate. I knew silence could not keep gossip away forever, particularly after years of photographs at galas. But I could refuse to turn my medical appointments into content. Adrian sent written confirmation that his office would not make a statement or share medical information. Nina advised us to save it.
That evening, Adrian called with an odd request. He wanted to know which stroller I'd chosen. I explained the differences between two models, expecting his attention to wander as soon as the details became mundane.
Instead, he asked how heavy each one was and whether it fit through my building's elevator. "I'm learning there's a lot I didn't think to ask," he said. I told him that was a start, not an achievement.
Then he told me he'd canceled an appearance at a Chicago business dinner because the organizer wanted to ask about my pregnancy onstage. I didn't thank him as if privacy were a luxury he'd gifted me. I thanked him for telling me, and he accepted that. We were both trying to learn a vocabulary in which ordinary respect did not sound like a favor.
Before bed, I found an old photograph in a moving box: Adrian and me painting a kitchen wall in our first apartment, years before the mansion. He had blue paint in his hair and was laughing because I'd convinced him we could finish before midnight.
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It was tempting to believe the photograph proved the man I had married was still waiting underneath all his mistakes. It proved only that we'd once been happy.
I set it beside the unopened stroller brochure instead of hiding it. I was willing to let Adrian hear our daughter's heartbeat. I wasn't willing to let that sound erase my own. The next question was whether he could keep respecting limits when there wasn't a doctor watching or an emotional moment rewarding him for doing so.
