By sunrise, I barely recognized myself.
Then a hospital social worker entered the room.
Michael had already spoken to her.
That was the first thing that truly felt wrong.
“How long have you been talking about this?” I asked him.
He avoided my eyes.
“We’re just looking at our options.”
The social worker carefully explained that arrangements could be made for our son to be placed with another family.
My hands started shaking.
Michael leaned closer.
“We can have other children someday.”
I stared at him.
Other children.
As if the baby lying somewhere across the hallway had suddenly stopped being ours.
Before I signed anything, I asked to see him one more time.
A nurse brought him into the room.
He was asleep, wrapped in a white blanket.
Tiny nose.
Tiny fingers.
Dark hair resting against his forehead.
