I looked where Ethan told me to look.
I lifted the fabric carefully.
And I froze.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t obvious to strangers.
But to someone who had spent decades looking at bodies and recognizing patterns… it was enough.
A subtle, unnatural fullness.
Not bloating. Not posture.
Something else.
My throat tightened.
“Call a doctor,” I told the director. “Now.”
They brought in a physician with a portable ultrasound.
He didn’t ask why I was demanding it.
He took one look at my face and understood this wasn’t about curiosity.
He applied gel.
He moved the probe.
And then the room changed.
The doctor stared at the screen for a long moment, then lowered his hand slowly.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he said quietly, “your daughter was pregnant.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Pregnant.
Far enough along that it should have been known. Documented. Treated carefully.
And suddenly, “heart failure” didn’t sound like a cause.
It sounded like a label slapped on a situation no one wanted to examine too closely.
I walked out of that room like my legs belonged to someone else.
And I made one phone call.
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