
Some days she was fine and some days she was underwater barely breathing. At her 22-week check-up, newly flush with well-being, her nausea receding, she laughed at the grainy-grey image moving on the ultrasound screen, and gaily waved at the front-desk women as she left the doctor‘s
office, but alone in the elevator, she sank to the floor, a stark dissolving all around her. She sent Kwame a text. “I‘m 22 weeks today.”