And what if the baby had something that could never get better? Something that maybe meant a damaged heart or kidney and shots every day? What if she was scared of shots like Thomas? What if there was someone in the baby’s class who thought they were super clever about mean nicknames? Or worse?

This was why it didn’t matter if I was the only one with Turner syndrome—because the alternative was a whole lot worse. Maybe even dangerous.

And there was another thing. A silly thing, maybe. Because really, no matter what, Mom and Nonny would look at me the way they always had. The way that said, You are my sister who I love no matter what, and, You are my daughter who I love with my whole universe no matter what. They’d look at the new baby the same way, too, no matter what. But in the place inside your head, the only person you’ve got there looking at you and talking to you is yourself. Like you’re staring into a mirror that shows what you really look like on the inside, and if I failed in this deal, even if nobody else knew, I’d know. It’d be like a sticky note taped to the corner of my Inside Mirror that said, Here’s another thing you missed.

Here’s another thing you couldn’t do.

I’d recently watched a documentary on the History Channel about the Apollo space missions and how dangerous and important they were. The title of the show came into my head while I sat in that hospital room.

Failure Is Not an Option.

What’s in a Name?

Nonny came home pretty quickly, with the assignment to get lots of rest. The doctors said morning sickness like this was a bit unusual, but that she’d be okay if she drank lots and didn’t overdo it. Mostly things went back to normal, but any time Nonny only nibbled her food, Mom’s face seemed to get one more tiny wrinkle. Other times I’d hear Nonny on the phone with Thomas, worrying about what they were going to do for his next job, telling him how much she missed him. Those times were reminders for me. Reminders of how important my mission was.

Her baby bump was also starting to show. That was another reminder. She wasn’t nearly at bowling-ball level yet, but there was a roundness in her belly that you could tell was something special.

I sent another email through the Knight-Rowell Publishing website. And I wrote another letter to Mr. Trent Hickman.

Nonny had this look that I started to think of as the After the Doctor Look. Usually her appointments were during school, so I didn’t get to go after the first one, but when I walked in the door and she was on the couch with the sugar-glazed eyes and more light in the room came from her face than from the lamp by the piano, I knew she’d seen one of those TV-static pictures of her baby.