Chapter 2

Another wave of intense pain hit, my vision went dark, and the phone slipped from my hand.

All I could hear was my own hoarse cry for help: "Save me... and my baby..."

The ambulance siren tore through the silence of the early morning.

When they lifted me onto the stretcher, everything beneath me was already soaked.

The contractions came in waves, as if trying to tear me apart.

The nurse pushed the gurney at full speed, the wheels screeching against the floor.

"Family! Where's the family!" the nurse shouted as she ran.

I opened my mouth but couldn't make a sound.

The delivery room doors opened and closed.

I was moved onto the operating table, my legs raised.

After the examination, the doctor's face grew grave: "The cervix is dilating too fast. Premature birth. The fetus is too small. We need family to sign the surgical consent form!"

"I'll... sign it myself..."

My consciousness was fading from the pain, but my hand desperately clutched the doctor's sleeve.

"That won't work. It must be immediate family!" The nurse panicked. "Where's your husband? Phone number!"

They retrieved Ethan's number from my broken phone.

The long dial tone, then his lowered voice:

"Victoria? I'm in the ER. Charlotte has a fracture and needs surgery. I can't leave..."

"This is the maternity ward!" the nurse interrupted him.

"Your wife is having a premature birth with severe hemorrhaging. She needs immediate surgery! Please come sign the papers right now!"

A few seconds of silence, then he said: "I... I really can't leave right now. Charlotte also needs a family member to sign, and her uncle hasn't arrived yet..."

"Can Victoria sign herself?"

The nurse froze and looked at me.

I closed my eyes, my voice ice cold: "Tell him to go to hell."

The call ended.

I took the consent form and pen, my hand shaking too much to write.

The nurse held my hand and guided it stroke by stroke to write "Victoria."

The surgical lights came on, so bright they made me cry.

"She's out!" the doctor called.

No crying.

My heart jumped to my throat.

A few seconds later, a weak cry sounded.

"It's a girl. Premature. She's going to the ICU."

The nurse brought the baby to my face. "Take a look."

She was so tiny, all wrinkled, eyes closed, her little mouth quivering as she cried.

I reached out, my fingertip just touching her warm skin before she was carried away.

"Baby..." I called out hoarsely.

The incubator door closed, shutting out all sound.

I spent two hours of post-op observation alone in the recovery room.

As the anesthesia wore off, the incision burned with pain.

The door opened.

Ethan rushed in, hair disheveled, eyes red.

"Victoria!" He lunged to the bedside trying to grab my hand. "I'm sorry, I came too late..."

I pulled my hand away and looked at him.

He'd changed clothes, but the red mark on his neck was still there.

"Is her surgery done?" I asked quietly.

He stiffened and nodded: "Yeah. Her uncle arrived, so I rushed over... Where's the baby?"

"Incubator." I said. "Premature. Lungs underdeveloped. She might not survive."

His face instantly turned deathly pale: "How could... what did the doctor say?"

"The doctor said family needed to sign." I looked into his eyes.

"But you couldn't sign earlier, could you?"

"Victoria, I didn't mean..."

"Ethan," I interrupted him. "Do you know what I was thinking when my water broke?"

He shook his head, tears falling.

"I was thinking," I said slowly,

"if I died today, would you regret choosing to take her to the hospital instead of me."

"Don't say that..." He choked up.

"You won't die, and neither will the baby..."

"But we already did die." I turned to look at the ceiling.

"From the moment you rushed out that door, the Victoria who loved you for seven years died."

The nurse came in to wheel me to the ward.

Ethan tried to follow but was stopped at the door.

"Family members need to handle admission procedures," the nurse said coldly.

He stood there bewildered, at a loss.

On the seventh day, the baby was taken off the respirator.

The nurse said it was good news, but seeing the IV catheter in her little wrist, my heart still ached.

That afternoon, Ethan came.

He stood outside the glass looking in for ten minutes, then said to me: "I've thought of a name. Let's call her Lily."

"Her last name is Morgan," I said.

He froze: "What?"

"Her name is Hope Morgan. Nickname Hope." I repeated. "My daughter. She takes my last name."

"You really want to do this?" He frowned. "The child belongs to both of us."

"She belongs to me alone." I cut him off.

"Did you sign the papers? Were you there during the surgery? How much time have you spent with her these seven days?"

He was speechless.

I handed him the divorce agreement:

"Sign it. I get custody, you pay child support, and we split the assets fifty-fifty."