“Not any of my business,” the woman says, jotting something in her file. “Nor is it anyone else’s. Happens more often than you’d think.” She sets her pen down and folds her hands on the desktop. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”

Sammi nods.

“I see a long line of high-profile clients. The public can be brutal, as I’m sure you’re realizing very quickly. They will eat you alive if you allow their projections to affect the way you see yourself.”

My heart wobbles at her words because she couldn’t be more spot on. “Were you a therapist in a former life?” I ask the question to lighten the mood, but am only half kidding.

“Just a fellow human, woman, and mother who’s seen a lot.”

“Thank you,” my wife says, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her sleeve.

“Know yourself. Know your heart. And don’t give anyone—not me, not the media, not even your own family—the power to take that from you.”

“I’ll try,” Sammi says, sitting up a little taller after her pep talk.

“Great,” the doctor says, retrieving her pen. “Now, back to business. We can get a pretty accurate due date from the ultrasound.”

“Perfect.” My wife visibly relaxes into my side.

“Breathe,” I whisper against her temple. “We’re about to see our baby.”

“Our baby,” she utters, just loud enough for me to hear. She blows out a long breath, seeming to release much of the weight that’s been sitting on her shoulders since our arrival.

After a few more questions, Sammi goes off to provide blood and urine samples and have a physical exam, whatever that entails. My new bride was not too keen on my partaking in that part of the appointment, and I’m a little relieved. Don’t know how ready I am to see my favorite toy splayed open for someone else’s perusal. I’m perfectly content with keeping my ass right here on this couch.

“You can come on back now, Mr. Livingston,” the doctor says, peering her head into the doorway.

My pulse takes off at a sprint as I get up and follow her to a dark room across the hall. My wife lolls her head to the side, smiling at me from the table where she’s laying with her shirt tucked up under her bra and her black leggings rolled to just above her pubic bone.

I rush over to stand by her side. “What’s happening?” I whisper.

But it’s the doctor who answers. “We’re going to do an ultrasound to determine how far along she is.”

“Will you be able to tell us if it’s a boy or a girl?” I don’t beat around the bush. I need to know so I can properly flaunt my victory.