There’s no phone signal, so I go outside, half expecting to bump into Stuart, to see him running in, bursting with apologies. He won’t have trouble getting a parking spot; he’s one of the luckiest people I know.

He’s not. Instead a voice mail, the gist of which is, he’s “so sorry. Held up. Can they reschedule for later?”

Anger flares. As if they will be able to reschedule for later. Appointments are like gold dust. Plus, I don’t want to. I’ve been waiting a very long time for this.

Stuart has been through this twice before, it simply doesn’t mean as much to him. I try to recall if he made all Nina’s scans. I can’t. But it’s not something I would’ve thought to ask her or something she would’ve told me. My lack of a much-wanted baby created an unacknowledged gulf between us. Guilt hits. I should’ve risen above my own pain and jealousy.

Back in the waiting room, everyone is in pairs except me. Mothers, partners, friends. Everyone has someone. I sit up straight in my plastic seat and pretend that I’m fine with my situation.

“Ms. Langham?” A nurse or midwife stands at the entrance to the room.

I smile, stand up and follow him along the corridor.

I lie down. I keep my eye on the screen as gel is smeared across my ever-bulging stomach. The sonographer runs a probe (looks like a wand in my opinion) over my skin, applying pressure, which doesn’t hurt. She points out parts to me. I listen, in awe, to her running commentary. My baby—a real baby—is in front of me with fingers, toes, arms, legs and a head.

“Would you like to know the sex?” she says.

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

It will teach Stuart never to let me down again.

“It’s a boy,” she says.

Relief. Until her next sentence.

“He’s slightly sleepy, though, so I can’t complete all my checks. It’s nothing to worry about, but I’m going to suggest that you nip to the canteen and have a Coke or a coffee, then I’ll arrange for you to pop back in an hour or so.”

I am worried.

I want to call Stuart and beg him to come over—what if something is wrong? But then, he’ll in all likelihood discover that I’ve found out he’s a boy. As I sip a cappuccino, I silently pray that he’s all right.

Stuart’s right. All that does matter is that our baby’s healthy. I focus on my breathing. Outwardly earth-motherly calm, inside riddled with buried guilt.

Thankfully, caffeine does the trick.

The technician is able to complete all her checks, and I’m told that the baby is perfectly healthy. (I must stop thinking of him as a “he” or I’ll give myself away.) I can’t stop looking at the black-and-white scan pictures of my baby as I catch the return bus to the parking lot. He’s perfect. He’s real.

There are several messages from Stuart. I ignore them all.