“It’s not your fault, Mom,” she said. “Pregnancy is unpredictable. What matters is that this isn’t life-threatening. With support, your son can still have a full life.”
She squeezed my hand. “I’m just a call away.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Then Warren reached for his keys.
At first, I assumed my husband just needed some air. He was like that, usually needing a walk to digest important information.
“Babe,” I said. “Can you hand me that glass of water?”
“Pregnancy is unpredictable.”
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He didn’t move.
Instead, he looked at Henry the way some men look at a ruined wall. Not grief, not fear… appraisal.
“I’m not doing this,” he said.
I stared at him. “What?”
My husband’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t sign up for a life like this, Bella. I wanted a son I could throw a ball with, a kid I could surf with. Henry won’t be able to do any of that.”
“I’m not doing this.”
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I waited for him to take it back. I waited for him to cry, to panic, to say anything a decent man would say after hearing hard news about his son.
He picked up his jacket and walked out of the delivery room like he was leaving a meeting that had run long.
The nurse touched my shoulder. The neurologist said something I didn’t hear.
I looked down at my son, so innocent and trusting.
“Well, sweet boy,” I whispered. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”
He blinked at me like he had expected nothing else.
“I guess it’s just you and me now.”
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***
Two days later, I signed discharge papers alone, listened to therapy instructions alone, and watched women leave the maternity ward with flowers, balloons, and husbands carrying bags.
I left with a sleeping baby, a folder thick enough to choke a printer, and a nurse named Carla walking beside me.
“You got somebody meeting you?” she asked.
I smiled so tightly it hurt. “Eventually.”
That was the lie I told strangers for about a year.
I signed discharge papers alone.
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