Larissa stared at him. “I’m sixty-six years old!”

“There are extremely rare cases,” he replied cautiously. “But you should see a gynecologist to confirm.”

She left the clinic stunned. Yet somewhere deep inside, she believed it. She had carried three children before. As her abdomen continued to expand, she convinced herself this was some kind of late-life miracle. She felt pressure, heaviness—sometimes even what she thought was movement.

Still, she didn’t see a specialist.

“I’ve done this before,” she told herself. “When the time comes, I’ll go to the hospital.”

Months passed. Her stomach grew larger. Curious neighbors asked questions, and Larissa smiled, saying perhaps God had chosen to bless her again. She knitted tiny socks, picked out names, even bought a crib.

By her own count, she had reached the ninth month when she finally made an appointment with a gynecologist to prepare for delivery. The doctor, doubtful given her age, began the exam.

The moment the ultrasound image appeared, his face drained of color.