“I won’t.”
I wanted to tell him that he had said things like that before.
Instead, I nodded.
He left the room.
For the first time since he had walked in, I was alone.
Not truly alone. Nurses passed in the hall. Machines hummed. Somewhere nearby, another baby cried. But in that bed, beneath those blankets, with my daughter down the hall and my ex-husband chasing answers about his mother’s name in my chart, I felt the strange quiet after a storm.
I thought I would feel triumphant when Ethan found out.
For months, I had imagined it.
Not because I wanted revenge, but because pain makes storytellers of us. In my loneliest moments, I had pictured him seeing the baby and understanding all at once what he had lost.
I imagined him apologizing.
I imagined myself being cold and strong.
I imagined walking away with my daughter while he stood there full of regret.
But real life was messier.
Regret had walked into the delivery room wearing blue scrubs and tired eyes.
And I had needed him.
That was the part I did not know how to forgive myself for.
The door opened twenty minutes later.
Ethan came back without knocking, then seemed to remember and paused awkwardly at the threshold.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Come in.”
He entered carrying a paper cup of water and a small packet of crackers.
“You used to get nauseous when you were overtired,” he said.
“I just had a baby, Ethan. I think nausea is allowed.”
“I know.”
He set the water on the table and remained standing.
I studied him.
“What did you find?”
“Records is looking into the chart access history.”
“And your mother?”
“I called her.”
My pulse jumped.
“You what?”
“I asked if she had contacted the hospital.”
“And?”
“She said no.”
“Of course she did.”
“She also said she was in the lobby.”
The room tilted.
“What?”
Ethan’s expression was grim.
“She’s downstairs.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“I told the staff she is not allowed up here.”
The answer came so quickly that I had no time to brace for it.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I did not know what to do with the feeling that moved through me then. It was not relief exactly. Relief was too clean. This was tangled with grief, anger, gratitude, and the old ache of wondering why he could not have done that before we shattered.
“What did she want?” I asked.
“She said she heard I was working tonight and came to bring food.”
“At midnight?”
“I know.”
“She knows.”
“I think she might.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The word yet mattered.
A month ago, I would not have trusted him with it.
Now, I was too tired not to.
Before either of us could say more, Linda appeared again.
“They’re bringing Maya back for a visit.”
Everything in me turned toward the door.
A minute later, Dr. Alvarez entered with the bassinet.
Maya was wrapped in a white blanket with pink and blue stripes, a tiny cap covering her dark hair. She looked calmer now, her face softer, one cheek squished against the blanket.
“She’s doing well,” Dr. Alvarez said. “Her initial levels need monitoring, but nothing alarming at this moment. We’ll repeat labs in a few hours.”
