There it was again. That word. As if I were a burden to be endured, not the woman carrying his children. As if this pregnancy was something I was doing to him, not for us.

“I’m growing your babies,” I whispered, the words feeling fragile and small.

“My baby,” he corrected absently. “And you’re being dramatic about it.”

Baby. Singular. I pressed my hands to my belly, feeling the two distinct, tiny patterns of movement within. The ultrasound from three weeks ago was still folded in my wallet. Twins, the technician had said with a wide smile, pointing to two perfect little spines on the grainy screen. I had tried to call Marcus from the parking lot, but he was in a meeting. Then another meeting.