Dr.
Wright’s voice became colder.
“Emily Parker gave birth today.”
Silence.
Not the crackle of a bad connection.
Real silence.
I knew it immediately because I had heard that same silence the night I told Ethan I was pregnant.
Then he said, “Dad?”
The word hit me almost as hard as the revelation itself.
Dr.
Wright closed his eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
“How do you know Emily?”
“I’m standing beside her hospital bed.”
Another silence.
“Is the baby okay?”
My anger flared.
I leaned toward the phone.
“He’s perfect.”
Ethan inhaled sharply.
“Emily.”
“Don’t say my name like you’re surprised I’m still here.”
“I didn’t know you were at Mercy Creek.”
“You didn’t know because you never called.”
Dr.
Wright said nothing.
This was mine to say.
“You had seven months, Ethan.
Seven months to ask whether I was okay.
Whether your son was okay.
Whether I had enough money to eat after paying rent.
You didn’t even send one message.”
“I was scared.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“So was I.
I just didn’t get to leave.”
That sentence silenced him.
Dr.
Wright stared at the floor.
Finally Ethan spoke.
“Can I see him?”
I looked at my son.
For months I had imagined this moment in different ways.
In some versions Ethan came back apologizing.
In others I slammed a door in his face.
Reality was messier.
He was still my son’s father.
But biology did not erase abandonment.
“Not today,” I said.
“Emily—”
“Not today.”
I made my voice steady.
“You don’t get to disappear for seven months and then arrive because your father found us by accident.
If you want any place in his life, you’re going to have to prove you can stay.”
Ethan was quiet.
Then, softly, “Okay.”
