By the third trimester, her body began making those decisions for her. Her feet swelled. Sleep became negotiation. Her back hurt. Her blood sugar numbers ruled the day. She monitored food, water, rest, mood. She learned which meals kept things stable and which sent her readings climbing. She learned that stress raised numbers too, which felt like a cruel joke.
Mitchell adapted with her. He started packing lunches the night before so mornings would be easier. He sat through every appointment where he could get away from work. He rubbed her lower back without being asked. When she cried after a difficult endocrinology check-in and told him she felt like a failing science experiment, he kissed her temple and said, “You are growing our daughter. That is not failure. That is labor before labor.”
They had already chosen the baby’s name by then.
Paige.
Simple. Strong. Easy to say. Impossible to turn into a cutesy nickname Wendy would hate.