“Yes.”
It took nearly forty minutes before they could move me. The pain medication dulled the edges of my body but did nothing to quiet my mind.
They wheeled me through the hospital corridors beneath harsh white lights. Every turn seemed too slow. Every second seemed stolen.
When we entered the NICU, I saw rows of incubators, tiny blankets, blinking monitors, and nurses moving with quiet precision.
Then I saw her.
My daughter was so small beneath the wires and tubes that my heart physically hurt.
A breathing mask covered half her face. Dark hair curled against her forehead. Her chest rose with the rhythm of the machine.
I reached through the opening in the incubator and touched one finger to her hand.
Her fingers closed around me.
I broke.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry you came into the world like this.”
The NICU nurse adjusted the blanket around her.
“She knows you’re here.”
“What’s her name?” the nurse asked.
Ryan and I had discussed names for months. He wanted Evelyn if the baby was a girl. His mother had insisted it was tradition.
I looked at my daughter.
She had survived blood loss, oxygen deprivation, and an emergency delivery. She deserved a name that belonged to no one else.
“Hope,” I said.
The nurse smiled softly. “Hope is beautiful.”
“Hope Amelia Bennett.”
I used my maiden name without hesitation.
The nurse glanced at me, surprised, but said nothing.
My phone had been placed in a clear plastic belongings bag attached to the wheelchair. I asked for it.
There were twenty-three missed notifications.
Three messages were from coworkers.
Two were from my neighbor.
One was from my younger brother, Noah, who lived four hours away.