Matthew
I keep staring at the ultrasonography photo even after Sarah left already.
I can barely make out the shape she pointed to. This tiny, bean-sized blur that's apparently my child. Our child. The thought makes my stomach clench and my heart stutter.
Setting the photo on the counter, I walk to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a generous glass of scotch.
But even the burning sensation of the liquid doesn't help my nerves.
I take another swig, remembering the way Sarah looked at me just now—afraid. She was afraid of me. I've become the kind of man I always despised.
I look at the ultrasound again. A baby. My baby.
It shouldn't change anything, this tiny blob on grainy paper. It shouldn't make me feel this… conflicted. But it does.
I down the rest of my scotch in one gulp and pour another. The alcohol is starting to work its magic, dulling the pain in my chest.
Should I apologize to her? I shouldn't have grabbed her face so hard. What if I left bruises on her again?
