I drive to the doctor’s office and present myself to the receptionist the moment their door opens. “I’ve no appointment,” I tell her, “but I’m pregnant, and I’m bleeding, and I have to see Dr. Montgomery.”

“Are you in pain?” the receptionist asks.

“No.”

“How long have you been bleeding?”

“Since around midnight.”

The receptionist doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

I sit down and wait to be called, leaning heavily to my left side as if I can somehow protect the baby, keep the oxygen flowing.

Thirty minutes later, my name is called. My doctor is delivering a baby right now, but his partner will see me.

Dr. Jenkins asks me a few questions and then says we’ll do a vaginal ultrasound.

I slide in my paper gown down the bench and put my feet in the stirrups and feel tears fill my eyes.

This isn’t going to be good, I think, even as I pray, Baby, be there, baby, be there.

I look at the doctor, who is looking at the little screen. Bless the doctor. No expression at all. A consummate professional.

“Mrs. Laurens—”

“Ms. Laurens,” I correct.

“There’s no heartbeat.”

There’s no heartbeat. I blink, feel tears slip down the side of my face into my hair. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She rolls back on her chair and returns the ultrasound wand to wherever it goes. I smooth the paper gown over my stomach, toward my legs, and then lower my legs one by one.

“I’ll have your doctor follow up with you.”

I nod. Sit up.

“Right now we just let nature take its course, but if there’s pain, or the bleeding continues, we might want to schedule a D and C. But Dr Montgomery will discuss that with you when he calls you later today.”

I nod.

Dr. Jenkins stands, extends her hand, and touches my arm. “I’m sorry.”

It’s over.

It’s over, and all I can think is, Thank God I never told the kids.

Thank God I lost the baby before I showed. Not because I care what anyone thinks, but because the kids have hurt enough. They don’t need to know about the half baby brother or sister who now will never be. They don’t need to be troubled or confused. They don’t need to feel how I feel.

I curl up in bed and cry.

My God, could this year be any harder? Any worse? Could I just please get something good, something easy, something right?