She went into labor at four in the morning.
She drove herself to the hospital until contractions became too strong, then called an ambulance from a gas station.
She gave birth that morning.
It was a little girl.
Six pounds and something.
She was healthy, but Anna wasn’t.
Something went wrong afterward.
Bleeding.
Then more bleeding.
Then a series of words James had clearly heard from doctors but couldn’t repeat properly.
She deteriorated fast.
“How did they call you?” I asked.
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That was the part I couldn’t understand.
James swallowed.
“They didn’t at first.”
A nurse came out of the room while he was still talking.
She had a clipboard held against her chest.
She looked between us.
“Are you his wife?”
“I am.”
She nodded gently.
“Ma’am, I think this may help.”
Help what? I almost asked.
Instead, I waited.
“When she was going, we asked her whether there was anyone we could call.”
My chest tightened.
“She wasn’t fully conscious by then,” the nurse continued. “Not really. But she kept saying one name.”
She tipped her head toward James.
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“His.”
I looked at him.
James looked at the floor.
“Over and over,” the nurse said. “Nothing else.”
Eleven years.
She’d married another man.
Built a whole life.
Been abandoned inside it.
And at the end of everything, the only name she could reach for was a boy she’d trusted with her future half a lifetime earlier.
My first thought should probably have been jealousy.
It wasn’t.
I thought about fear.
A woman dying alone.
A newborn baby a few rooms away.
No mother.
No husband.
No family waiting in the hall.
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And one old name still reachable somewhere in the fog.
“How did they find him?”
The nurse answered.
“She gave enough of his last name before she lost consciousness. Social services looked through her records and belongings. There was an old emergency contact entry buried in previous paperwork with his full name.”
James nodded.
“They called me about an hour ago.”
I stared at him.
“You came immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her?”
He shook his head.
“She was already gone.”
That sentence flattened everything.
The baby made a tiny sound in the room behind us.
All three of us turned.
The nurse’s face softened.
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“She’s doing well.”
I looked at James. He was terrified.
Not of the hospital.
Of me.
That was when I finally understood that whatever he was about to ask had nothing to do with Anna wanting him back.
Anna was dead.
This was about the baby.
James took one breath.
Then another.
“She has no one.”
I didn’t move.
“Her father’s not coming. Social services reached him. He signed something saying he isn’t seeking custody.”
My mouth went dry.
“Already?”
“He left months ago. Apparently he doesn’t want involvement.”
Anger flashed through me so fast it almost felt clean.
