"She really does." It's barely above a whisper, a mixture of grief and awe. She doesn't pull away when he moves to grab the photographs; she stays curled against his chest. Maybe they're making up for lost time, the careful way he's kept apart from her. Maybe it's just that she can't bear this along.

(Maybe neither of them can. If they couldn't bear it together.)

"If there weren't--" her throat closes up, she can't refer to the ultrasounds. "I almost thought it was Melissa, for a second."