“Where is Ryan?”
The nurse stepped closer. “We called the number listed in your emergency contacts nine times.”
“Did he answer?”
“Not at first.”
A cold pressure filled my chest.
“When he finally answered,” she continued carefully, “he said he was at a family event and asked whether the situation could wait.”
I stared at her.
The machine beside me began beeping faster.
Dr. Patel placed a hand on my shoulder. “Claire, you need to stay calm. Your blood pressure is still dangerously high.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you had suffered a placental abruption and nearly died from blood loss. I told him his daughter was in the NICU.”
“And?”
The nurse looked down.
“He said he would come after the birthday dinner.”
Something inside me went still.
Not shattered.
Not broke.
It simply stopped reaching for him.
I closed my eyes and saw Ryan standing in our kitchen, adjusting the cuff of his suit while blood ran down my legs.
You’ve been pregnant for nine months. You can wait a few more hours.
“Claire,” Dr. Patel said, “there’s something else you need to understand.”
I looked at her.
“You lost a significant amount of blood. We were able to stabilize you, but there were complications. Your uterus was badly damaged.”
I knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“We had to perform a hysterectomy to save your life.”
The room became silent except for the machines.
I would never carry another child.
My daughter might be the only baby I would ever have, and her father had chosen cake and champagne over whether either of us lived.
A sob rose in my throat, but no sound came out.
The nurse reached for my hand.
“Would you like to see your daughter?”