" The hospital is as busy as it was yesterday. We go in through the main entrance, and people walk in every direction. The people in scrubs and white coats all walk a little bit faster. There’s a guy sleeping on one of the waiting room sofas, and a hugely pregnant woman leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s swirling a drink in a plastic cup. That baby is giving her T-shirt a run for its money. A toddler is throwing a tantrum somewhere down the hallway. The shrieking echoes.

We move to the bank of elevators, too, and Melonhead isn’t one of those guys who insists on pressing a button that’s already lit. He smiles and says “Good afternoon” to the pregnant woman, but I can’t look away from her swollen belly.

My mother is going to look like that.

My mother is going to have a baby.

My brain still can’t process this.

Suddenly, the woman’s abdomen twitches and shifts. It’s startling, and my eyes flick up to find her face.

She laughs at my expression. “He’s trying to get comfortable.”

The elevator dings, and we all get on. Her stomach keeps moving.

I realize I’m being a freak, but it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring.

She laughs again, softly, then comes closer. “Here. You can feel it.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly.

Melonhead chuckles, and I scowl.

“Not too many people get to touch a baby before it’s born,” she says, her voice still teasing. “You don’t want to be one of the chosen few?”

“I’m not used to random women asking me to touch them,” I say.

“This is number five,” she says. “I’m completely over random people touching me. Here.” She takes my wrist and puts my hand right over the twitching.

Her belly is firmer than I expect, and we’re close enough that I can look right down her shirt. I’m torn between wanting to pull my hand back and not wanting to be rude.

Then the baby moves under my hand, something firm pushing right against my fingers. I gasp without meaning to.

“He says hi,” the woman says.

I can’t stop thinking of my mother. I try to imagine her looking like this, and I fail.

I try to imagine her encouraging me to touch the baby, and I fail.

Four months.

The elevator dings.

“Come on, Murph,” says Melonhead.

I look at the pregnant lady. I have no idea what to say. Thanks?

“Be good,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink.

The elevator closes and she’s gone "

― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)