It began, as these things often do, not with wonder but with logistics. A date on a prescription slip. A clinic that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic. Instructions to arrive with a full bladder, as if even my body needed to be staged correctly for this moment. I went because I was told to go, because this was what came next, because pregnancy, still a word that felt borrowed rather than owned, had already begun arranging my days for me.