"Delete or save," Camille asked.
"Save," Zora said. "Not because I want her voice in my pocket. Because clarity sometimes arrives in ugly envelopes. And because someday I may need evidence of my own boundaries for myself."
She did not reply.
Thursday's OB appointment sat on the calendar like a fixed star. Dr. Patel's office smelled of sanitizer and the faint sweetness of the hand lotion in the restroom. Caleb drove. Camille rode in the back. In the waiting room, a television murmured a cooking show with the sound low. Pregnant women turned pages of magazines they were not reading. Partners scrolled phones. Zora checked in, sat, and felt the eyes of the room slide over her belly the way rooms always did—public property, temporary monument.
Caleb started to rise when the nurse called Zora's name. Camille stood first.
"Waiting room," Zora told him quietly. "Unless they need a signature."
He sat back down as if the chair had become a sentence.
In the exam room, Dr. Patel—brisk, kind, grey streaks in dark hair—measured Zora's belly, checked the baby's heart rate, reviewed blood pressure numbers that made Camille's nurse-eyes sharpen.
"One-thirty-eight over eighty-eight," Dr. Patel said. "Not crisis. Not nothing. How is stress at home."
Zora looked at the ceiling tiles. "Elevated. Family rupture. I am managing it with support and sleep as best I can."
Dr. Patel did not pry with greed. "We monitor. Hydration. Rest on your left side. Call if headaches, vision changes, sudden swelling. Baby looks good. Head down. You're on track for a term arrival unless baby or body says otherwise. Birth plan still current?"
"Mostly," Zora said. "Support people may shift. My mother is… no longer a default."
"That's allowed," Dr. Patel said. "Birth plans are intentions, not handcuffs. Tell the labor nurse clearly who is welcome and who is not. We enforce what you tell us."
On the drive home, Caleb kept both hands on the wheel. "What did she say."