By the time I reached the hospital, my shirt was wrinkled, my face unshaven, and my heart felt like it had been dragged across broken glass.
A nurse stopped me at the desk.
“Are you Ethan Miller?”
“Yes. Hannah is my wife. Where is she?”
The nurse’s expression softened with pity, and that terrified me more than anger would have.
“She’s being treated for severe postpartum complications and dehydration. Your son is in neonatal observation.”
I pressed one hand against the counter.
“Will they live?”
She hesitated only a second.
But it was enough to ruin me.
“The doctors are doing everything they can.”
Then I saw my mother at the end of the corridor.
She stood near the vending machines, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Annoyance.
As if Hannah’s collapse had inconvenienced her afternoon.
“Ethan,” she said sharply. “You didn’t need to fly back like this.” Continue Reading ⬇️
