The ultrasound is pristine. Not a defect to be found. Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes, and a penis they can't miss when the baby rolls and splays himself conveniently.
Cooper is over the moon; Charlotte smiles through the lump in her throat and pretends she's thrilled, too.
When they get home, she shuts herself in the bathroom, lets the tub run while she sits on the lowered toilet seat and cries, and hates herself for it. There are hormones at work here, and she knows that, but the knowledge doesn't make her feel any better. She reminds herself that the baby is healthy, that she should be grateful, that she has a son who's stolen her whole damned heart, so why wouldn't she want another to love just as much?
But that's just it. She already has her boy, and she'd wanted a matched set. The amazing son she'd never known she wanted and the daughter she'd been dreaming of. She thinks of skirts and frills, princess movies and prom dresses, makeup and first kisses. The pain of loss is palpable, eclipsed only by the hard hammer of guilt gaveling down on her at the very thought that she's crying over perfection.
That perfect isn't good enough, she'd wanted more.
She's a horrible mother. This was a mistake. If she can't even be selfless enough to accept her perfect baby in all his flawless glory, how can she manage to pull off the mommy business at all?
The tub fills and she has to crank down the faucet, which means she has to kill the waterworks too, or she'll be found out. So she reins herself in, and strips, sinking into the bath until the water hits her chin, and brooding there until it goes cold.
When she goes to check Mason's summer school homework a little bit later, he gives her a guilty look and admits he's not done yet. He's been too busy making a list of all the things he wants to teach his baby brother - so he doesn't forget anything when the baby comes.
Charlotte can't help it; she smiles at him. This kid, sometimes he just kills her. She has a traitorous thought that the boy in her belly can't possibly live up to the one sitting beside her, but she pushes it aside and asks him to read her the list.
He obliges:
Pokemon.
Soccer.
Fishing.
Baseball.
How to make a paper football.
Bakugan.
Phineas and Ferb.
Fairly OddParents.
Peanut-butter-peanut-butter jelly-jelly sandwiches.
Lightsabers.
Blanket forts.
Pillow forts.
Couch forts.
How to make the water drop sound with his tongue.
Armpit farts.
How cool frogs are.
The aquarium.
Eels.
How to swim in the pool.
How to dunk someone.
Cannonballs.
Why Batman is awesome.
It goes on and on - she'd interrupted his writing at number 102. A litany of frogs, and snails, and puppy dog tails. A boy's list of boy things. He stops here, though, at number twenty-two, and looks at her. "I'm really glad the monkey's a boy. I couldn't do all this stuff with a girl," he tells her, before he starts back up again with, "Comic Books..."
She watches him read, and that vice around her heart starts to loosen, bit by bit. With every item on the list, she aches less and less for the kiddie jewelry, and the pastel nursery, and the long, silky hair to braid and curl. She watches her son tell her all the things he wants to share with his brother, and thinks maybe living in this boys' club is okay. The baby in her belly gives a little kick, and she smiles and settles her hand over her bump.
Yeah, she thinks.
This will be just fine. Better, even.
Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes.
Exactly as he's meant to be.