Chapter 3

My baby was in an incubator, hooked up to tubes, too weak to even cry.

And my husband was sleeping soundly, being cared for by another woman.

He even tacitly allowed her to update me on his whereabouts, in the tone of a partial mistress.

The nurse came over and handed me a sheet.

"Karen, this is the bill for the baby's first two days in the NICU."

"Premature babies in incubators are quite expensive. You'll need to go to the cashier to pay an additional deposit."

I nodded and took the sheet.

The amount on the bill was substantial.

I opened my mobile banking app and efficiently transferred money from my account to the hospital's.

Before, during prenatal check-ups, Owen always insisted on paying.

He accompanied me for the 4D ultrasound, staring intently at the baby's fuzzy outline on the screen.

"Look at his tiny hands, so strong."

"When he's born, I'm going to buy him the best crib, use the best of everything."

Those words still echoed in my ears.

But now, when it was time to truly bear responsibility, he was completely absent.

No sooner had I paid than another message from Owen popped up.

"Honey, I'm awake."

"Still a bit dizzy. I might be back late tonight."

"Eat dinner by yourself, don't wait for me."

He was still calling me "honey."

The term now felt like a joke.

He thought I was still at home, that I was just sulking because he hadn't answered my call.

He had no idea that I no longer planned to wait for him.

I put my phone on silent and slipped it back into my pocket.

"Nurse, please take me back to my room."

As the wheelchair turned around, the urgent beeping of instruments suddenly rang out from the NICU.

A doctor in a sterile gown hurried out, holding a document.

"Karen's family present?"

Brenda rushed forward.

"Yes, I'm the patient's mother."

The doctor's expression was grave.

"The baby just experienced a brief respiratory arrest and a drop in heart rate. We're performing emergency interventions."

"This is the emergency treatment consent form. Family needs to sign immediately."

Brenda's face went ashen, her hands shaking so much she couldn't hold the pen.

I struggled to lean forward from the wheelchair and snatched the pen.

"I'll sign it."

The pen scraped across the paper with an awful sound.

I signed my name, putting all my strength into each stroke.

Just as I handed the consent form to the doctor,

my screen lit up. Owen had sent a photo.

It was a cake with candles.

The caption read: "It's Eve's birthday tonight, team dinner. I'll be back late."

"Respiratory arrest is common in premature babies, but we can't take any chances each time."

The doctor held the signed consent form, his tone serious.

"The baby's lungs are not fully developed yet. The next 24 hours are critical."

"The family should be prepared. Resuscitation might be needed again at any time."

I leaned back against the wheelchair, my nails digging deep into my palms.

"I understand. Please do your best."

The red light on the emergency room door glowed, blindingly bright.

The corridor was so quiet I could only hear the hum of the ventilation fan.

Brenda sat on a nearby bench, hands clasped, muttering prayers.

I looked down at my phone screen.

Owen's cake photo was still at the bottom of our chat.

An exquisite fondant cake, with "Happy Birthday, Eve" written on it.

I didn't reply.

A few minutes later, his call came through.