Page 121 of Once Upon A Second Chance
“And the crown-rump length?”
“Measuring at nine weeks and two days.”
I nod, absorbing it all. “Any abnormalities in the yolk sac structure?”
She gives me a long, amused look. “Still normal.”
Penny leans her head against the exam bed and mouths,breathe.
I exhale slowly, wiping a hand down my face.
“She’s healthy,” Dr. Elkins says gently. “And you’re both doing just fine.”
The words land somewhere deep in my chest. Like permission. Like grace.
When the exam wraps up, Penny gets cleaned off and dressed, and we sit together holding the little printout of the ultrasound—grainy and strange and miraculous.
In the truck afterward, she rests her head on my shoulder as I pull out of theparking lot.
“You asked four questions before I’d even sat down,” she says.
“I had more, but I was self-editing.”
She chuckles and takes my hand.
I glance over at her, the picture still tucked between the pages of the intake folder in her lap, and something in me settles.
We’re really doing this. Please, let everything turn out all right. Let Penny be fine and let the baby be perfect.
Please.
Penny’s father answers the door like he was expecting someone but notme.
His eyes narrow just a hair before his posture straightens, the kind of instinctive readjustment men make when they’re preparing for something serious and don't yet know whether they’re about to be thanked or punched.
“Dr. Hogan,” he says, neutral but not cold.
“Mr. Morgan,” I reply, shifting the small bakery box in my hands. “Brought muffins.”
He eyes the box like it might contain explosives. Then, almost grudgingly, he steps aside.
“Hope you brought the blueberry kind,” he mutters as I step into the family home he’s owned for 45 years.
The place smells like fresh paint and new carpet; I know he’s trying to finally move forward and turn a new page on his life, putting his grief behind him as much as he can. Bringing a fresh look to the house is his way of starting that process in earnest.
I can see a yellowed photo of Penny and Jesse on the mantel. Fresh paint can work wonders, but there’s no doubt this is still the family home, the heartbeat of the Morgan clan.
“I did,” I say, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. “Figured it was a safe bet.”
We sit at the old oak table near the window. The silence stretches while he pours two cups of coffee. No cream, no sugar. Just black, hot, and bracing.
“So,” he says, after a long sip. “Let me guess. This isn’t about muffins.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s about Penny.”
That gets me a long, measured look. Not unfriendly—but definitely guarded.
I take a breath. “I came because I want to marry her.”
