That was the moment I knew the nurse had not chased me down over something insignificant.
I stepped back and unfolded the page.
It was a copy of a note from the hospital social worker.
Michael’s name was at the top.
Underneath were details from a conversation he had with them earlier that morning while I was sleeping.
He had told them that I had already decided I didn’t want our son.
He claimed I was too emotionally unstable to make decisions and asked them to move forward with a permanent placement as quickly as possible.
Permanent.
Not temporary.
I stared at him.
“You told me we were only giving ourselves time to think.”
Michael went pale.
“You were exhausted. I was trying to make things easier.”
“By making the decision for me?”
The nurse looked at me.
“You can still change your mind. Nothing is final yet.”
For the first time since my son had been born, I felt like I could breathe again.
I turned toward the hospital.
Michael grabbed my arm.
“Emily, think about our life.”
I pulled myself free.
“That is exactly what I’m doing.”
Then I started running.
I left the empty baby carrier on the pavement and rushed back through the hospital doors.
By the time I reached the maternity floor, I was crying so hard I could barely speak.
“I want my baby back.”
The social worker stood up from her desk.
Michael arrived several seconds later.
“Emily, stop. You’re making an emotional decision.”
I turned toward him.
“No. I made an emotional decision when I signed those papers because I was terrified.”
The hallway went silent.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to say out loud.
“Do you even want him?”
Michael looked at me.
Finally, he answered.
“I don’t want this kind of life.”
Those words ended something inside me.
But it wasn’t my love for my son.
It was my marriage.
I went into the nursery.
The nurse placed my baby in my arms.
He was sleeping, his tiny face pressed against my chest.
I kissed his forehead.
