“No heart beat,” says the sonographer, “Measures about ten and a half weeks.”
The size of a shrimp, the woman thinks. But still visible in black and white; head, body, legs drawn up and arms closed tight.
But that’s it.
There’s no movement.
Silence.
Feeling nothing, except unintended moisture slide down the right side of her face, the would-be-mother stares at the ceiling.
“At this age it wasn’t anything you did,” continues the sonographer, “It wasn’t your fault.”
She tries to shed guilt, like snakes shed skin. But is unaware how much she’ll have to let go, to get through.