My mother froze and turned to look at me.
I braced myself against the edge of the bed and tried to push myself up a little.
The pull at the incision made me suck in a sharp breath.
"You don't need to write him in."
I took the pen and signed my own name in my mother's line.
"Leave the father's field blank. For the emergency contact, just put my mother's number."
The nurse hesitated, watching me.
"But it's hospital policy. The visitor list for the NICU has to be immediate family. If the father isn't registered, he won't be allowed in to see the baby later."
"He doesn't need to go in."
I handed the pen back to her. My voice came out so calm it surprised even me.
"He won't be coming."
The nurse didn't press. She gathered up the form and left.
My phone buzzed again.
A voice message from Eric popped up.
"I've got a meeting with an investor this morning, then I'm heading back to the office in the afternoon."
"You be good and stay home. Tonight I'll bring back that chestnut cake you love from the place on the South Side."
"Stop sulking. Once the baby's born, you'll have plenty to be tired about."
He didn't even know I wasn't home.
He had no idea that the child he still thought was "two months from being born" was lying in an incubator right now, wired with tubes.
I didn't reply. I just pressed the screen dark.
My mother fastened the visitor band around my wrist.
It read: Mila Fox's son.
Early in the pregnancy, the first time Eric heard the heartbeat, his eyes had gone red.
He'd held my hand and pressed it to his cheek.
He'd said, Mila, from now on, you and the baby are the most important people by my side.
He'd even bought a thick new-father's handbook and written across the cover, solemn as anything: Countdown to Baby's Arrival.
But now the countdown had ended early.
And the man who'd sworn he would be the first to hold our child had handed his private passwords and his time to another woman.
I closed my eyes. There were no tears at the corners.
I only had one thing to say to the nurse.
"Please mark my room number as private. Don't tell anyone."
"The baby can't be held yet. Mom can only look for five minutes."
The nurse wheeled me up to the glass window of the NICU and stopped the chair there.
The smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the hallway, and the cold air slipped through the loose hospital gown and into my bones.
I gripped the armrests with both hands and forced myself upright to see inside.
In the incubator, that tiny body lay curled in on itself.
His skin was a raw, purplish red, a thin IV line taped into his arm.
So small that even breathing seemed to cost him everything.
A clear identification band was looped around his wrist.
Written on it in black marker: Mila Fox's son.
The father's field was still blank.
I reached out through the glass, fingertips against the cold surface, as if I could feel the warmth of him through it.
The phone in my pocket buzzed.
I drew my hand back and took it out.
A voice message, from Maria.
"Hey, Eric's got a terrible headache today, he fell asleep at the office."
"I made him a hangover smoothie. Don't be hard on him, the client last night was really impossible."
"He's just trying to earn formula money for your little one, you know."
In the background came Eric's voice, low and a little hoarse, mumbling.
"Maria, pour me a glass of water."
"Sure thing, Eric, coming right up."
The message cut off there.
I stared at those dozen-odd seconds of green bar on the screen, and my stomach turned.
I had just clawed my way back from the edge of dying, and I needed my mother's help just to turn over.
