“No,” I whispered. “I finally do.”
He stared at me.
“You’ll ruin your life.”
I shook my head.
“No. I almost did.”
The nurse walked beside me back through the hospital doors.
My whole body hurt.
The stitches.
The exhaustion.
The shame.
The fear.
But nothing hurt as much as knowing my baby had spent his first hours in this world surrounded by people whispering about what was “wrong” with him.
No one had said he was beautiful.
So I would.
They brought me into a quiet room.
A doctor came in, then the social worker. This time, Brian was not allowed inside.
They asked me if I had been pressured.
I said yes.
The word came out small.
Then louder.
“Yes.”
They explained everything again.
Not with pity.
Not with horror.
Not like my son was a tragedy.
They told me he might need extra support.
That there would be appointments.
