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Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was barely audible, but to Amy, it might as well have been a jackhammer.
She shifted in her seat for the third time in ten minutes, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag as her eyes darted to the corner of the room. The soft but persistent dripping, almost rhythmic, seemed to echo louder with every passing second.
That leak hadn’t been there last time. It was new and it was bothering her.
A firm kick from inside her abdomen startled her. She glanced down, one hand instinctively resting on her rounded belly. Her baby was picking up on her anxiety. Of course he was. At thirty-two weeks, they were already far along—over eighty percent, she’d been telling herself. Or, as Sheldon had put it with his characteristic precision, “You’re 226 out of 280 days in, which is approximately 80.7 percent. I rounded down so you wouldn’t panic.”
She had laughed at the time. Now, it didn’t feel quite as funny.
Her insecurities had crept in slowly over the past few weeks. But lately, they’d grown louder, more insistent, especially in the quiet moments like this, where the only thing to do was wait. Wait, and think.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Twenty minutes in, she’d triangulated the source of the sound—something leaking behind the air conditioning unit above the reception counter. The discovery didn’t help; if anything, she felt ridiculous for how obsessed she’d become with it. Hyper-awareness like this was usually Sheldon’s domain. He’d once insisted they leave a dentist’s office because the aquarium filter wasn’t calibrated to match the advertised serene ambiance.
As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed gently on her lap.
<< Have you gone in? >>
She typed back quickly:
<< Not yet. Still waiting. >>
His reply came within seconds, of course:
<< Make sure to ask about fetal movement frequency, the Braxton Hicks threshold, the updated growth percentile, and whether her scale is calibrated to the hospital standard. >>
She smiled faintly, despite herself.
<< I’ll try. >>
The three dots blinked on her screen as Sheldon typed, but Amy muted the phone and let it rest on the gentle slope of her stomach, which now functioned as an increasingly convenient makeshift table—though she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Most of her pre-pregnancy wardrobe no longer fit. Her back ached if she sat too long. Her feet had taken on a permanent state of puffiness that no elevation or compression socks seemed to resolve. And although Sheldon had been nothing but supportive in his own distinctive, structured, overly-prepared way, there were things about this experience he could not possibly understand; the strange, contradictory blend of excitement and dread she felt with each passing day.
He had meant well, when he’d rattled off a checklist of questions this morning, orange juice in one hand, his phone calendar in the other, reminding her he wouldn’t be able to attend today’s appointment due to a faculty seminar. Part of her had almost welcomed the solitude. Without Sheldon there to pepper Dr. Patel with twenty-three follow-ups, today’s appointment would likely be short and uneventful.
But Amy knew it wouldn’t be. There was a question she needed to ask—one she’d rehearsed quietly in the shower, considered blurting out in the middle of the night, and ultimately buried beneath layers of uncertainty and guilt. It had been weighing on her for weeks, invading her thoughts like an echo that never quite faded. A question not even Sheldon could help her articulate, because it wasn’t one she could ask with him in the room.
This one had to come from her. Alone.
"Amy Fowler?"
Her head snapped up. A medical assistant stood by the doorway, clipboard in hand, offering a polite smile.
Amy’s pulse quickened. She adjusted her coat around her shoulders, took one final breath to steady herself, and rose slowly, careful with each step. When she reached the examination room, she gave a soft knock before nudging the door open.
Inside, Dr. Patel looked up from the computer screen and offered a warm smile. “Good morning, Amy. How are you two doing today?”
“Um—it’s just me today.”
Dr. Patel raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Ah, yes. I meant you and the little one there.”
“Oh—right,” Amy laughed nervously, immediately feeling foolish. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
Dr. Patel tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingered on Amy for a beat longer than necessary, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before it was swiftly masked. She turned back to the screen and began clicking through Amy’s file.
The consultation had unfolded as expected. Her baby boy was thriving, with a strong heartbeat, and active movements. Growing right on track along the growth centile curve. And yes, she had asked whether Dr. Patel’s scale was calibrated to hospital standards. A small win for Sheldon, in absentia.
“Well, Amy,” Dr. Patel concluded, swiveling slightly in her chair, “everything looks as good as we could hope for at this stage of your pregnancy.”
Amy nodded, lips curling into a polite smile. “Great. I’m glad.” But even she could hear how forced it sounded.
Dr. Patel watched her for a moment, kindly but perceptive. “I sense there’s something else on your mind. Would you like to talk about it?”
Amy hesitated. She’d come here to ask. She had promised herself she would. Even if Sheldon had been present, she’d have found a way to bring it up. But this was far simpler: no interruptions, no need for later explanations to him, just the direct interaction between herself and the expert.
“I… I have a question,” she began, her voice quieter than before. “It’s been on my mind for a while.”
Dr. Patel said nothing, just offered that calm, open posture that encouraged honesty.
Amy inhaled slowly. “I know we’ve already discussed the risk of congenital anomalies because of my age, and I’m so relieved that the tests have all come back negative.”
The doctor nodded in agreement, watching her carefully.
“But I was wondering…” Amy’s words began to falter. Her eyes dropped to the floor. “If, um…”
She trailed off, fingers fiddling with the hem of her blouse. Why was this so hard to say?
“My husband,” she tried again. “I’m sure you’ve noticed… he functions a little differently.”
Dr. Patel’s face softened. “He’s rather special,” she said with a gentle smile.
Amy gave a small, grateful laugh and nodded vigorously. “Right. Exactly. He’s not neurotypical. Though he was never formally diagnosed, he grew up in East Texas in the early '80s, and that kind of thing just wasn’t… acknowledged, let alone had a diagnosis.”
She felt herself rambling, trying to justify something she hadn’t even asked yet. “As a neuroscientist, I know how things have changed. Now we understand so much more about developmental differences. People like Sheldon—well, they—uhm—they have…”
She stopped again, her throat tightening. The words clung stubbornly at the back of her mouth. It felt like betraying him to say it aloud, like shrinking him down into a label, when everything about him was so vast.
Dr. Patel stepped in softly, “It’s alright, Amy. I understand what you mean.”
Amy nodded, her voice catching. "Okay," she whispered, taking a deep breath, then another.
Then the words came out—tentative but sincere. "I was just wondering... if our baby might be like him too."
The silence that followed was gentle, not judgmental. Dr. Patel didn't look surprised. "I see," she said quietly. "That's been weighing on you."
Amy looked away, blinking furiously. A single tear slipped free before she could stop it.
Damn these hormones!
She let out a shaky breath, one hand instinctively moving to her belly. “It’s not that I wouldn’t love him if he were. Of course I would. I just… I keep wondering if I’d be enough. If I’d know how to raise someone like Sheldon. I barely know how to live with one.”
Amy’s mind drifted, spiraling into memories and quiet reflections that she rarely allowed herself to confront so directly. Sheldon’s struggles with social cues had always been a delicate dance —the missed sarcasm, the literal interpretations, the blunt honesty that often left others bewildered or even hurt. And yes, through years of patience, love, and mutual understanding, he had learned to navigate these waters more gracefully. He was not the same man who had once been so rigid and unknowingly alienating.
But there were other layers: his hypersensitivity to sounds, physical touch, smells, tastes—a sensory world that could feel overwhelming and suffocating. The unrelenting knocking rituals and bathroom schedules, the compulsive need for order and cleanliness born from his germophobia and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Those traits weren’t mere quirks; they shaped the rhythm of their daily lives, the way they planned and prepared, the small adjustments made to accommodate his needs. Sheldon was, undeniably, a wonderful man, brilliant, kind in his own way, and fiercely loyal. There was nothing Amy would change about him.
But the spectrum was broad, and she knew it. Not all children with similar traits would grow to be as high-functioning, as resilient, or as deeply loving as Sheldon had become. What if their son’s challenges were greater? What if the nuances that made Sheldon manageable and lovable became insurmountable hurdles?
She felt the weight of those questions settle heavily on her chest. What if she wasn’t strong enough to support a child who might need more than she could give? What if the balance she and Sheldon had fought so hard to create was too fragile to withstand the added strain? And what about Sheldon himself? Could he bear the responsibility? Would the man she loved, who already navigated his own complex inner world, be able to face these challenges without breaking?
Her fingers twitched nervously, tracing invisible patterns on her skirt as if trying to steady the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. She looked up, meeting Dr. Patel’s calm, reassuring gaze.
Dr. Patel leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “Amy, every child is different. Every parent feels unprepared. The fact that you’re thinking about this, that you’re asking these questions—that already makes you more than enough.”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands loosely in her lap.
"Amy, what you're asking is not uncommon. It's a very real and deeply personal concern for a lot of parents, especially those who’ve lived closely with neurodiversity."
Amy's shoulders slumped slightly—not in defeat, but in the quiet relief of feeling understood. She nodded once.
"There's been considerable research on this," Dr. Patel continued gently. "The most recent large-scale genetic studies estimate that autism spectrum disorder is highly heritable. Twin studies, for example, suggest a heritability rate of around 80% to 90%."
Amy let out a small, sharp breath. That number had been stuck in her mind from the literature, cold and clinical in print, but now it landed like a weight in her chest.
"So if my husband has traits—significant traits, even if they were never diagnosed..." She trailed off.
Dr. Patel nodded, not interrupting.
"...then our son might inherit those same neurological differences."
"Yes," the doctor said. "There is a higher probability. But I want to stress this: higher probability is not certainty. Not all children with a first-degree relative on the spectrum will develop ASD. It’s an increased risk, not a sentence."
Amy chewed at her lip, almost absently. “I know that. Logically. But when I lie awake at night, logic doesn’t always help.”
Dr. Patel smiled sympathetically. “You're not alone in that.”
There was a long pause.
“I think,” Amy said at last, her voice quiet but clear, “what frightens me isn’t the diagnosis itself. I know what autism is. I understand the neurology, the strengths, the challenges. It’s not about fearing him being different. It’s…” she stopped, trying to find the precise word, “...me. I’m scared I won’t be enough for him. That I’ll miss something. That I won’t know how to love him the way he needs to be loved.”
Tears threatened again, and this time she didn’t bother trying to stop them.
“I live with Sheldon. I love him. But it’s hard. And he’s had decades to learn strategies. What if I can’t do it with a newborn? What if I screw this up from day one?”
Dr. Patel handed her a tissue, waited patiently.
“Amy, I don’t think there’s a mother alive who hasn’t asked herself that exact question—neurodivergent child or not. But the fact that you’re asking it already speaks volumes about the kind of parent you’ll be.”
Amy gave a watery, half-laugh. “Sheldon would call that a non-sequitur.”
Dr. Patel chuckled. “He probably would. But I think he’d still appreciate the sentiment.”
After a moment, she continued. “It’s worth mentioning, too, that early research suggests that maternal sensitivity—your responsiveness to your baby’s cues, your emotional availability—can make a real difference in outcomes, even for children with early ASD traits. And Amy, you are not just any mother. You're a trained neuroscientist. You’ve spent your whole life understanding how people think, how they connect. You are more equipped than most.”
Amy sniffled. “I’ve also spent my whole life being awkward and shut out.”
“And now you’re using all of that experience to prepare yourself to be the best possible mother,” Dr. Patel said firmly. “You’re not behind, Amy. You’re already ten steps ahead.”
Amy exhaled slowly, as though releasing something that had been caught beneath her ribs.
“Can I ask…” she hesitated, “...is there anything I should do now? Like during pregnancy, to help? Any supplements? Interventions?”
Dr. Patel shook her head lightly. “There’s no known prenatal intervention that prevents ASD. Folic acid, which I know you're already taking, may reduce some risks. Beyond that—healthy habits, reduced stress, good sleep. I know that’s easier said than done.”
Amy smiled faintly. “You think?”
They both chuckled.
“I wish I could offer you a guarantee,” Dr. Patel said, her voice softer now. “But parenting comes with none. What I can tell you is this: whatever comes, you’re not going to be alone. And your son—whatever his neurology—will be born into a household with parents who are brilliant, curious, and deeply devoted. That's a better starting point than most.”
Amy wiped her eyes, then crumpled the tissue in her hand.
“I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured. “I thought I’d come in here and just ask the question like a scientist.”
“You did,” Dr. Patel said kindly. “But you asked it like a mother too. And that’s exactly who you are now.”
Amy swallowed the lump in her throat, straightened her spine, and gently laid a hand over her bump. He kicked in response, as if acknowledging the moment.
She whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “Okay, baby. Whatever you turn out to be… I’ve got you.”
“So is our son…” Sheldon began, reaching for the bowl of popcorn resting on her lap, “going to grow into one of those kids who actually follows the plot, or just stares at the explosions? Because studies show that children who display an early preference for intellectually stimulating content often fall within the ninety-fifth percentile on later cognitive development charts.”
Amy laughed softly, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. The movie hadn’t even started, and she’d already eaten a third of the bowl without realizing.
“That’s quite a mouthful to open movie night with.”
“I was simply wondering,” he replied, entirely unbothered, his eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s a fair question. I’d like to manage my expectations.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” she said, popping another kernel into her mouth. “What I do know is that he’s growing well. And no, I didn’t forget to ask about the centile chart calibration.”
Sheldon turned to look at her, that slight upward twitch of his lips betraying what might almost be pride. “Good. Some OB offices use outdated WHO standards. It’s shocking.”
After returning from her appointment with Dr. Patel, Amy had all but collapsed onto their bed, the weight of the day dragging her down with a force she hadn’t anticipated. She had planned to return to work for the remainder of the afternoon, had even mentally drafted a few lines of an email during the car ride home, but her body had gently insisted otherwise. She was exhausted, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, in a way that had slowly built over the course of several weeks. The constant thrum of worry had left her drained. And now, after her conversation with Dr. Patel, she felt just a little lighter, as though a small but stubborn knot had finally loosened within her chest. Her anxiety, while still present, no longer sat on her shoulders like an unmovable weight. Instead, it lingered more quietly, allowing space for a sense of calm that had been long overdue.
Sheldon settled beside her on the couch, easing into his spot, the remote already resting in his hand.
“I wish I could have been there,” he said, a hint of genuine remorse in his voice. “Honestly, if I had known Kripke would spend the entire meeting talking nonsense about particles and an unprovable theory involving tachyonic drift through quantum foam, I would have walked out and made it to the appointment instead.”
Amy turned to him, her expression softening with affection. “Don’t worry—you didn’t miss much. Everything was fine.”
“I had a couple more questions I wanted to ask Dr. Patel,” he continued, scrolling aimlessly through the movie menu. “If only you had read my text.”
She rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I did read your text. You sent me a full list of questions, followed by a diagram, two journal links, and some memes I don’t understand.”
“Well, yes,” Sheldon said without irony. “Those memes were quite funny. Dr. Patel loves my humor.”
“Then you can tell her on the next visit.”
“They may not be relevant anymore in two weeks.”
Amy sighed with gentle amusement, wrapping her arms around his shoulder and pulling him closer to her. “Then you can just ask two extra questions to make up for it.”
He turned to her, visibly not pleased by the compromise, but when she kissed his cheek, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners with a smile he was failing to suppress. He reciprocated by kissing her temple, then settled back with his head leaning slightly toward her shoulder.
As she leaned back against the couch, one hand now idly toying with his hair, Amy felt a sense of peace settle over her like a warm blanket. The baby nudged softly beneath her ribs, reminding her of his presence, and she allowed herself a moment of comfort. Her thoughts returned briefly to the worries she had voiced earlier—the deep, vulnerable fears about what traits their son might inherit, and how that might shape his life. But snuggling close to Sheldon those fears didn’t feel quite so paralyzing anymore.
She watched him as he started to animatedly dissect the potential plot holes in the film they had chosen for the evening, gesturing occasionally with his popcorn as he spoke with a conviction she adored. And Amy thought about how far they had come—how far he had come. Life with him had never been simple. He was, in every imaginable way, a challenge. But he was her challenge. Her partner. Her husband. Her soulmate.
As she had once said in her vows, and she still meant it, perhaps more now than ever—her love for him was not static. It was expanding, growing, accelerating with each passing day, like a universe unfolding at its own strange and beautiful pace. And already, she felt that same boundless love for the child growing inside her. She couldn’t yet imagine the full depth of it, only that when they finally met him, she would be ready to give him even more. And no matter who their child came to be, that love would remain unwavering, steadfast in every form.
She didn’t care if Sheldon was on the spectrum or if their child might be too. This was her life, and she embraced it fully.
The End