I ended the call and tried again.
Voicemail. The baby stirred in my arms, letting out a soft cry that quickly turned into something louder. I rocked gently, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to calm anymore.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. No response. I sat down on the porch, pulling my jacket tighter around both of us, my hospital bag still at my feet. The reality of the situation began to settle in, piece by piece, and none of it made sense.
He knew I was being discharged today. He had promised to pick us up, but then texted that something came up and I should just take a cab home. I hadn’t questioned it at the time. I was too tired, too focused on the baby.
Now, sitting there in the fading light, I started to understand. This wasn’t an accident. I called my sister. She didn’t ask questions—just told me to stay where I was and that she was on her way. When she arrived and saw me on the porch, still in my hospital clothes, holding a crying newborn in front of a locked house, her face changed in a way I’ll never forget.
