Chapter 33 033
EMILY
I held my baby close while she tried to understand the weight sitting in the room.
Her body was warm and small against mine. Tubes and wires trailed from beneath it like things that didn’t belong on a child. Her curls brushed my chin every time she shifted, soft and familiar, the only thing in this place that felt real.
Her voice was small. Sleepy. Confused.
“Mommy?” she murmured. “Why is everyone sad?”
The question cracked something open in my chest.
I rocked her gently, my cheek pressed to the top of her head, breathing her in like I needed to memorize her.
“You’re going to be fine, sweet girl,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady. “The doctors are going to fix everything. You’re so brave. So strong. Mommy’s here. Daddy’s here. We’ve got you.”
The words felt fragile, like glass spun into promises.
She shifted, nestling closer, her tiny fist curling into the fabric of my shirt, right over my heart. “I’m scared.”
The words hit me harder than anything else had all day.
I kissed her forehead, lingering there longer than necessary, my lips pressed into her warm skin like I could seal my strength into her. “I know,” I said softly. “It’s okay to be scared. Even grown-ups get scared sometimes. But you’re safe. And tomorrow you’ll feel even better.”
Her breathing hitched once. Then again.
“Promise?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
My throat closed.
“Promise,” I said anyway.
I rocked her—slow, steady motions, the same ones I’d used when she was a newborn and nothing else could soothe her. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I felt her body relax gradually, the tension easing from her shoulders, her fingers uncurling from my shirt. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting sleep like it was something she needed to stay awake to control.
Then she lost the battle.
Her breathing evened out. Deep. Trusting.
I laid her back against the pillows with hands that shook, tucking the blanket carefully around her shoulders, adjusting it so it didn’t touch the IV line. I brushed a curl away from her cheek and pressed one more kiss to her temple.
She sighed in her sleep.
Completely unaware of how fragile the world felt to the people standing around her.
I stood there watching her for a long minute.
Too long.
Then I turned and walked out before the fear swallowed me whole.
The hallway outside her room was quiet—too quiet. Nurses moved past in soft shoes, murmuring to each other, their calm professionalism almost insulting in the face of what my chest was doing.
I needed air.
I needed space.
I needed something bigger than this room, this fear, this waiting.
I followed the small sign with the cross and the word "Chapel" printed beneath it. Halfway down the corridor, I saw them.
Ryan.
And her.
They were standing near the vending machines, the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights washing over them. Miranda was angled toward him, her body close enough to feel intentional. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, fingers barely there, the kind of touch that pretended innocence while meaning everything.
She was saying something soft. Comforting.
Ryan nodded, head bowed, shoulders heavy.
Something hot and bitter climbed up my throat.
Then Miranda looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
And she smirked.
It was quick—just a flash—but it was sharp. Satisfied. Like she’d won something. Like she wanted me to know she’d seen me see them.
Then her face smoothed back into concern.
Ryan followed her gaze.
Our eyes met.
I scoffed under my breath and walked faster, my sneakers scuffing against the linoleum as I passed them without stopping. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. Didn’t give myself a chance to say something I couldn’t take back.
The chapel doors were heavy. Solid wood. I pushed them open and stepped inside.
The room was dim, the noise of the hospital muted behind me. Soft wall sconces cast a warm glow over rows of wooden pews. Candles flickered along the walls, their flames steady and quiet, like they knew how to behave in a place like this.
The altar was simple. A wooden cross. An open Bible. Kneelers worn smooth by years of desperate prayers.
I walked straight to the front and collapsed onto one.
The tears came immediately.
They poured out of me like I’d been holding them back for days instead of hours. I pressed my forehead to the cool wood of the pew in front of me and let them fall, my shoulders shaking with each breath.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Please save my baby. Please don’t take her from me.”
My hands trembled as I clasped them together.
“I know I messed up. I know I hurt people. I know I don’t deserve her sometimes. But she’s good. She’s so good.” My breath hitched. “Please… please let her be okay.”
I didn’t know who I was praying to anymore. God. The universe. Anyone who might be listening.
I just knew I was begging.
I didn’t hear him come in.
I felt him.
The space behind me shifted, the air warming with a presence I knew as well as my own heartbeat. Fear answered fear. Grief recognized grief.
Then a hand—gentle, hesitant—settled on my back and began to rub slow circles, like he was afraid I might shatter if he touched me too hard.
I turned.
Ryan.
He knelt beside me on the kneelers, close but not crowding me. His eyes were red. His jaw tight. His shoulders slumped under a weight that mirrored my own. He looked like he’d been crying too.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m just trying to be here for you.”
Something inside me snapped.
I moved away from his touch. “Here for me?” I said, my voice sharp with disbelief. “Ryan, our daughter is having major surgery tomorrow and you’re outside flirting with your ‘co-worker.’ Don’t you have any shame?”
His eyes widened. “My goodness,” he said, stunned. “Miranda was just trying to comfort me before she left. That’s all.”
“Yeah, right.”
I stood abruptly, the kneeler creaking beneath me. I turned to walk away, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
He stood too. “Do you ever feel for anyone other than yourself?”
The words stopped me cold.
I spun back to face him. “The hell are you talking about?”
He shook his head, pain bleeding into his voice. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. You don’t think of what others are going through. Do you know the baby girl having surgery is my daughter too? How sad I’m feeling? How terrified I am?”
His voice broke on the last word.
“But you don’t care, do you?” he finished quietly.
The words landed hard.
I looked away.
My throat burned. My chest ached. I wanted to scream that he was wrong. That I cared too much. That I was drowning in it.
But the truth was messy. Complicated. Tangled in jealousy and fear and years of unhealed wounds.
I didn’t answer.
I just walked away—fast—my footsteps echoing too loudly in the sacred quiet of the chapel.
I didn’t look back.
I left him standing there among the candles and the silence and all the things we still couldn’t say.