Page 69 of Her Ex's Father
He was supposed to come with me, to see our baby for the first time on a screen—not just a little flickering blob, but a recognizable form—to hear the rush of the heartbeat.
Instead, yesterday morning he kissed me quickly, muttered something about “business,” and was gone before breakfast. By afternoon I learned from Hugh that Benedict was in Sweden, inspecting the new Bronson resort. No warning, no conversation, just absence.
The clinic smells like antiseptic and lemon polish, faint but sharp enough to turn my stomach. I grip the strap of my bag tighter, fighting the urge to bolt. Meredith leans forward with me, her comforting hand rubbing slow circles on my lower back. The waiting room is small—two armchairs, a gorgeous orchid on a single table, a stack of luxury magazines—and it feels private. We’re the only ones here. But every second I sit here feels endless, because today is the day I’ll find out if something iswrong.
How could he leave me to do this alone.
I tell myself not to be hurt, not to expect too much. He’s a man who runs empires. He can’t always be here. But the thoughtgnaws anyway.What if this is the start of him pulling away? What if Derrick’s poison has sunk too deep?
Meredith, calm as always, is a steadying presence—though it doesn’t erase the hollow ache that Ben isn’t here. At Dr. Furman’s request, she’s been visiting me twice a week at home to make sure everything is going well. Checking my blood pressure, noting any changes in symptoms, offering suggestions for how to ease nausea or lower back pain or the strange metallic taste I get in my mouth sometimes that is, apparently, normal.
When I take another slow, painful breath in through my nose, she reaches into her purse and quietly passes me a ginger candy. I chuckle, taking it and trying to ignore the way my mouth waters; from nausea or the candy I’ve come to enjoy, I’m not sure.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “You know, my own mom… it’s probably good that I’m not in Montana anymore. I don’t think she would’ve been much help with this kind of stuff.”
Meredith gives me a crooked smile. “Not everyone has an instinct for it, Maddie. Don’t be too hard on her.”
A nurse appears at the front desk, checking in with the receptionist to make sure my intake is finished. Any minute now they’ll come out to get me.
“Do you have kids?” I ask abruptly, not wanting to think about what’s coming next. Somehow, this isn’t a topic that has come up in all the weeks that Meredith and I have spent time together. She’s amazing at her job, amazing at putting the focus on her patients and not on herself. I realize just how little I know about her.
She shakes her head with a smile. “No; my husband and I were just licensed to foster this past year. We’ll see if, after that, anything sticks.” With a shrug, she admits, “I’m not sure I was made for motherhood. The medical stuff comes easy, and I learn from my patients. But having a little one, or two, or three,running me ragged? I don’t think I could handle it, if I’m being honest. Conner and I both like our peace. And sleeping in.”
She gives me a wink, and I laugh, flushing with the thought that soon enough there will be no sleeping in for me. A fantasy plays through my head: Ben and I curled up in the morning under a giant comforter. Our little one scrambling into the room to wake us at dawn. Ben’s grumpy, stubble-faced grumbling and the way he’d cradle her close—the same way he does me.
Like I’m something precious.
The ache of him not being here drives me to ask another question: “Is it… normal… for spouses, or partners or whoever, to not… come to these?” My fingers gesture weakly at the waiting room.
Meredith’s eyes narrow incrementally as she searches my face. She knows what I’m really asking, and the flush on my cheeks darkens.
“It’s not abnormal,” she answers quietly. “Sometimes it’s just scheduling; sometimes, a couple agrees that it’s only important for the mother to attend. In my opinion, better those options than a woman needing to drag the father along.” She shakes her head. “I’ve seen enough of that—men playing games on their phones while the woman gets bad news, or too distracted to answer a question directed at them by the doctor. But Benedict… Mr. Bronson,” she corrects herself, “he’sinvolved.Even if he can’t be here today.”
That assuages the erratic thump of my heart for a moment.
“Don’t ever tell him I told you this,” Meredith leans closer, “but a few days after you two found out about the pregnancy, he sent me an email. Asked Dr. Furman for my contact information.” An amused smile quirks Meredith’s lips. “Almost weekly he’s been sending me updates, worries, things you like; a counter-clockwise shoulder massage before you take a nap. Or lavender bath salts.”
All of a sudden, I’m sniffing back tears and smiling at the same time. “Sorry,” I laugh, feeling a swell of affection for my husband and for Meredith letting the secret out, “it’s the hormones.”
“Madeline Bronson?” The nurse appears in the doorway, cheerful, clipboard in hand.
I rise, smoothing my dress over the bump. I haveneverbeen much of a dress girl, but with the bump and my discomfort growing daily, it’s just easier not to have to worry about a waistband. Meredith comes with me, her hand warm against my elbow.
The exam room is dim, the hum of machinery filling the silence. I perch on the edge of the bed while the technician sets up, squirting gel into a bottle, adjusting the ultrasound wand.
“Eighteen weeks,” she says with a smile. “We should get some good pictures today. And of course, we’ll take care of the anatomy scan.”
I nod, forcing a smile back. My pulse hammers.
The wand presses cool against my stomach, sliding through the gel. The monitor flickers to life—grainy black and white at first, then sharper, clearer.
And there.
My baby.
Tiny hands, delicate spine, a heartbeat fluttering steady and strong. My throat tightens, tears stinging my eyes. Itlooksnormal, but then, I don’t really know whatwouldn’tlook normal.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, unable to help myself.
