“Pregnancy: Five to Six Weeks,” the doctor announced, dropping the instrument into the tray and peeling off her rubber gloves…⚘

Pregnancy five or six weeks, the doctor said, tossing the instrument into the tray and peeling off her rubber gloves.
“Will you keep it?”
I couldnt bring myself to reply.
Forty-two years old, this would be my fourth child, and truthfully, the last thing I needed. There was never quite enough money we barely scraped by from my paycheque to the next.
The older two were still at school, the little one would only just be starting in September, and she needed a new uniform pinafore and blouse plus a backpack, not to mention all the jumble of notebooks and reading books And now this surprise gift.
I told myself, “Ill talk to Edward, see what he says.”

That night at dinner, I told him,
“I went to the doctor.”
He looked up from his plate.
“Am I right in thinking?”
“Yes. Pregnant. Six weeks.”
He stopped chewing and put down his fork.
“Well, what can you do lets just have the baby. Two boys, two girls. A whole set.”
“A set! How are we meant to live?”
I laid it all out the older kids needing kit for school, the youngest needing everything under the sun, and all the more convinced that at my age, with our finances, to have another child was madness.
“Ill go for the tests before you know.”

After Id given all my samples and done the rounds, my spirits plummeted.
It pained me to think of the tiny person growing inside me. I imagined shed be a girl fair, sweet, and a little mischievous.

Crushed up against everyone in the tram on the way to the clinic, I somehow missed my stop altogether and fell out into the street. My shoulder bags strap dropped, and at first, I didnt even realise it was mine. Suddenly, it hit me someone had snipped the strap and nicked my whole bag, along with all my cash and my medical documents.

There was nothing for it but to go home. Some tests I had to repeat, some results I managed to restore.

The second time, getting off the bus, I tripped and badly hurt my ankle.
“If I go again, Ill break my neck,” I thought grimly, half believing my own superstition. Thats when I made up my mind: let the baby live. And I found a strange peace.

The pregnancy sailed smoothly. I already knew I was carrying a girl. Then, at my second scan, everything changed: the sonographer suspected the baby might have Downs syndrome.

“Youll need to have an amniocentesis,” she said gently, signing the referral.
“I have to tell you: it carries risks miscarriage, infection.”
I thought hard before agreeing.

On the day, Edward waited outside the room as I went in on shaky legs. The doctor listened to the babys heartbeat much too fast.
“Lets wait a moment,” she said.
“Well give you some magnesium.”
After that, they told me to sit out in the corridor and try to calm down.

Time passed; they called me back in. The babys heartbeat had settled, but now shed turned her back. They couldnt go ahead with the test.
“Well wait a bit more,” the doctor said, looking hopeful, “see if she turns around.”

The third time, all was well: she faced the right way, the rhythm was normal. They prepped my belly for the procedure.
It was hot. The window stood wide open, hoping for a bit of breeze. The nurse was just picking up the sterile tray, when a pigeon burst in, flapping madly and racing around the tiny room. The nurse screamed and dropped the instruments metal clattered everywhere as the pigeon careened into walls and heads.
I was told to wait outside again while they flapped about, shooing the bird out and setting up new clean tools.

Edward poked his head round the door, worry etched on his face.
“Whats happening in there?”
“A pigeon caused total chaos,” I told him.
“Vera, thats a sign. Come on lets go home.”
So we left.

In due time, I gave birth to a beautiful, fair-haired little girl.
Shes ten now.
Fair, lovely, and always up to something.