“It’s only temporary,” he said. “Just until we think clearly.”
But I knew.
A mother knows when something is goodbye.
Before I signed, the nurse brought my son to me one last time.
He was wrapped in a white blanket.
So small.
So quiet.
His little mouth moved like he was searching for me.
The nurse placed him beside my arm.
I touched his cheek with one finger.
He opened his tiny hand and wrapped it around me.
And in that moment, something inside me screamed:
Don’t do this.
But Brian’s voice came from the doorway.
“Please. Don’t make this harder.”
I looked at my baby.
Then at the papers.
Then at my husband.
And I signed.
An hour later, I walked out of the hospital holding an empty car seat.
Every step toward the parking lot felt like I was leaving part of my soul behind.
