No one would look me in the eye.
Then a doctor pulled me aside and spoke like he was trying to keep my grief from shattering into sharp pieces.
“Ethan,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry. There were complications. The baby didn’t… didn’t make it.”
I didn’t understand.
I kept asking questions.
All I got was silence.
When I went into Lauren’s room, she stared out the window.
Gray-faced. Still. Almost peaceful in a way that scared me.
“Lauren,” I whispered. “Talk to me. Please. Tell me what happened.”
She didn’t even look at me.
“You weren’t here,” she said. “You’re always at work, Ethan. Always running toward someone else’s disaster.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “You didn’t even call—”
“She’s gone,” Lauren cut in, cold and final. “Our child is gone because you weren’t here.”
Two days later, Lauren disappeared while I was working.
No goodbye.
No note.
Her number disconnected.
Her last words stayed lodged in my lungs like smoke:
It’s your fault.
After that, I shut down.
I took extra shifts.
Slept at the station.
Ate like a machine.
I didn’t think grief could go quiet.
But mine did.
And then—eight weeks later—I found a baby girl in an elevator.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
