Breathe in, breathe out. Step into the cramped, crowded waiting room. Take a seat; take another breath. Look at the clock, look at the receptionist, look at the screaming child throwing a tantrum two seats over. Try to stay calm. Get up quietly when the nurse calls you back; keep your eyes to the floor. Follow the nurse to the examination room; thank her quietly. Sit on the examination table; try not to make the paper covering crinkle too much. Wait. Greet the doctor; lie back. Don’t flinch when the cool jelly hits your stomach. Make small talk with the doctor. Do not look at the screen. Wait. Try to stay calm. Listen for the heartbeat; watch the doctor’s face. Notice his concern, the hurried movements as he tinkers with the monitor. Feel the eerie silence of the room as it covers you, moulds around you, takes your heart and holds it hostage. Remember to breathe. Accept the doctor’s condolences; take the card the nurse gives you for an appointment next week. Leave quietly; speak to no one, make your way home. Let yourself into the house; let the silence of its rooms comfort you. Walk into the nursery; take the “It’s a Girl!” banner off the wall; throw it in the wastebasket. Breathe.