Then I looked at Brian.
He was standing by the wall, pale and frozen.
He didn’t ask to hold the baby.
He didn’t even step closer.
Later, when they took our son for checks, Brian sat beside my bed and whispered:
“We can’t do this.”
I turned my head slowly.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at the floor.
“We’re young. We’re not ready for this kind of life.”
This kind of life.
Those words stayed in my chest like a stone.
I cried and told him he was our baby.
But Brian kept speaking.
Doctors.
Money.
Hospitals.
People staring.
A life that would never be normal.
And I was so tired. So weak. So afraid.
By morning, fear had filled the place where joy should have been.
A social worker came in with papers.
Brian stood beside me, not holding my hand, just watching.
