My baby lay in an incubator with tubes down his throat, too weak even to cry.
And my husband was asleep somewhere, tucked in under another woman's care.
He'd even let her use that half-wife tone to report his whereabouts to me, as if it were nothing.
A nurse came over and handed me a slip of paper.
"Mila, this is your baby's monitoring bill for the last two days."
"Preemie care in the incubator runs high. You'll need to go to the billing office and top up the deposit first."
I nodded and took the slip.
The number on it was not small.
I opened my banking app and transferred the money from my card to the hospital account, the motions automatic by now.
Back during the checkups, Eric had always rushed to pay.
He'd sat beside me through the 4D ultrasound, eyes fixed on the blurry little shape on the screen, unable to look away.
"Look at his little hands, how strong they are."
"Once he's born, I'm buying him the best crib. Only the best of everything."
Those words were still fresh in my ears.
But now, when there was actual responsibility to carry, he was nowhere to be found.
I'd barely finished paying when another message from Eric popped up.
"Babe, I'm awake."
"Still a little dizzy. Might be home late tonight."
"Eat dinner without me, don't wait up."
He was still calling me babe.
The word looked like a joke now.
He thought I was still home. He thought I was just sulking because he'd missed my call.
He had no idea I'd already stopped waiting for him.
I set the phone to silent and put it back in my pocket.
"Nurse, could you take me back, please."
The wheelchair had only just turned when an alarm started shrieking from the monitoring room.
A doctor in scrubs walked out fast, a document in hand.
"Is Mila Fox's family here?"
My mother hurried to him.
"Yes, I'm her mother."
The doctor's face was grave.
"The baby just stopped breathing and his heart rate dropped. We're carrying out emergency intervention."
"This is the emergency treatment consent form. Family needs to sign it immediately."
My mother went white with fear, her hands shaking too hard to hold the pen.
I forced myself to lean out of the wheelchair and snatched the pen.
"I'll sign."
The nib dragged across the paper with a harsh scratch.
I wrote my name, every stroke draining the last of my strength.
The moment I handed the form back to the doctor.
The screen lit up. Eric had sent a photo.
A cake with a candle in it.
The caption read: "It's Maria's birthday tonight, team dinner, home later."
"Apnea in preemies is common, but we can never take it lightly."
The doctor held my signed form, his tone serious.
"The baby's lungs aren't fully developed. The next twenty-four hours are critical."
"The family should be prepared. He may need to be resuscitated again at any time."
I sank back against the wheelchair, nails digging deep into my palm.
"I understand. Please, do everything you can."
The red light above the emergency room door came on, too harsh to look at straight.
The corridor was so quiet I could hear nothing but the hum of the exhaust fan.
My mother sat on the row of chairs beside me, hands pressed together, murmuring something under her breath without pause.
I looked down at my phone screen.
That photo of the cake from Eric was still sitting at the bottom of the thread.
A dainty fondant cake, "Happy Birthday Maria" written across the top.
I didn't reply.
A few minutes later, his call came through.
