Photo by Daan Stevens on Unsplash

“Come again?” I say. I pull the phone from my ear and eying the number on the screen. It’s my obstetrician, but maybe she thinks she’s called her boyfriend by mistake.

She clears her throat. “The genetic testing suggests 69 triple-X triploidy,” and I swear her voice is husky.

I write this down on the back of an envelope, even though I won’t forget. I speak it under my breath and it rolls off the…