Nina
The corridors of the medical center felt strangely frigid as I headed for Suite 201. My shoes tapped against the polished floor, the sound almost thunderous in the pre‑dawn hush, and every stride weighed more than the last. Throughout the night I had tossed and turned, re‑watching the previous day in my mind—Daryl’s unapologetic confession, the open devotion he lavished on Johanna, the way his gaze fixed on her as if she alone kept his universe in orbit. Now I had to march back into that waking nightmare.
“Doctor Nina Freeman,” someone called while I neared the nurses’ desk. The charge nurse, eyes on her tablet, raised a brow. “The expectant mother in 201 is reporting fresh symptoms. We’ve already scanned her file.”
There was no alternate route. I cleared my throat. “I’ll examine her now,” I replied, my voice harshened by the lingering cold in my chest.
Ahead lay a sterile tunnel of hallway, bland art on cream walls and that faint chemical tang of disinfectant. Overhead lights flickered, bathing everything in stark white. Reflections shivered in the glass doors: pale skin, reddened eyes, determination held together with frayed thread. The ventilation hummed; distant monitors beeped their metronome of life and death. My body returned to autopilot—checking vitals, recalling drug doses—because routine felt safer than acknowledging the splintering in my heart.
Encased once more in full protective gear—gown, hood, gloves, visor—I slipped into Johanna’s room, my features buried beneath layers of plastic. Daryl sat beside her, coaxing delicate slices of peach past her lips. The scene looked staged for a glossy magazine: his eyes worshipful, her smile tranquil, both hands cupped over her rounding abdomen in serene devotion.
My gut twisted, but I clamped down on feeling.
“Good morning,” I greeted through the respirator, the words slightly muffled. “Before we adjust your therapy, I need to confirm a few medical details.”
Johanna turned toward me, curiosity polite and open. “Certainly, Doctor,” she said, straightening.
I scanned the electronic notes. “You underwent orthotopic cardiac transplantation two years ago—correct?”
She inclined her head. “Yes—twenty‑four months, give or take.”
A breath snagged in my throat, though my professional mask stayed in place. “Pregnancy in post‑transplant patients carries substantial danger,” I explained evenly. “Immunosuppressants, increased circulatory demand, heightened risk of pre‑eclampsia—all serious. Continuous monitoring is essential, and a full‑term delivery may prove impossible.”
Daryl’s brow puckered; his arm gathered her shoulders. “Are you advising her to end the pregnancy?”
“I’m advising extreme caution,” I answered, voice flat. “She needs a tailored care plan to protect her health and give the fetus its best chance.”
Johanna stroked her belly with quiet resolve. “I’ll gamble everything if it lets this child breathe.”
My throat tightened, but I nodded. “We will marshal every resource for you.”
The exchange concluded, and I pivoted toward the door. Their low voices drifted after me, rooting my feet.
“I’m still amazed I survived,” Johanna whispered. “Thank you, darling, for rescuing me.”
Daryl exhaled softly, warmth in every syllable. “I’d cross oceans for you—you know that.”
“I do.” Her tone turned almost giddy. “You even let your wife’s mother become my donor. I can’t believe she signed the paperwork to give up her organs.”
Ice sluiced through my veins. My fingers locked around the doorframe.
“She was elderly,” Daryl replied with chilling ease. “The doctors said she had a ninety‑percent chance of waking up, but I ordered them to withdraw support. Being her daughter’s husband gave me the legal authority. Easiest call I’ve ever made.”
My interior world buckled. Knees trembling, I pressed a gloved hand against my racing heart. My mother—she hadn’t drifted away peacefully. She’d been sacrificed like a pawn.
Tears stung, yet rage glowed brighter than grief. I yearned to rip the illusion apart, to confront the man I once adored, but my feet carried me backward, shaking.
Mother had been my compass, my harbor. After her accident I lit candles and murmured prayers every night, clinging to hope she might wake. Daryl—my husband—had extinguished that hope and traded it for Johanna’s heartbeat.
A ragged breath rattled through me, betrayal clasping my ribs like an iron cage. How long had I been fooled? How many bedtime kisses masked the plotting of my mother’s death?
I retreated down the corridor, away from their poisonous tableau, away from walls closing in. High‑pitched ringing filled my ears. I barely reached the stairwell before my legs failed. Sliding to the landing, lungs aching, I felt Daryl’s confession pounding in my skull.
The stairwell smelled of bleach and cold concrete. After the sobs finally eased, I sat motionless, chilled scrub pants wicking the cold. Beyond the door the hospital kept humming—an overhead code three floors up, a cart rattling along linoleum, a weary intern’s half‑hearted joke. In that thin pocket of stillness I tried to form a plan, any plan, but my thoughts spun in broken loops: my mother’s gentle laugh, Daryl’s reassuring smile, the monstrous transaction that traded one life for another.
And then the tears came again—swift, unstoppable torrents. Each sob scraped my throat raw. I clamped a hand over my mouth to dam the sound, but anguish leaked between my fingers.
I had poured years of devotion into a man who never truly cherished me, who erased the last member of my family with bureaucratic neatness.
I lost my mother.
And somewhere along the way, I lost myself.
