Eight months pregnant, I went into premature labor. As they wheeled me into the delivery room, I frantically called my husband, Owen. The call connected, and I heard the loud, thumping music of a bar in the background. His new colleague, Eve, answered the phone. “Karen, Owen’s had too much to drink. I’m taking care of him, so don’t worry.” Before I could even speak, Owen’s voice drifted over, clearly unaware the call was connected. “Text my wife back. Tell her I’m working late on a project tonight and she shouldn’t wait up.” Eve chuckled, her hand over the phone. “Got it, Owen.” I spent an agonizing, heart-wrenching night alone in the delivery room. After our baby was born, Owen sent a message: “Project’s finally wrapped up. I’ll be back tomorrow to be with you.” I stared at the words for a long time. At 4 AM, I replied: “Owen, don’t bother coming.” “Stop looking at your phone. If he really wanted to come, he would’ve been here by now.” My mom, Brenda, sat by my hospital bed, her eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion. She held a cup of warm water, moistening my chapped lips with a cotton swab, bit by bit. The anesthesia was just wearing off, and sharp pains shot through my abdominal incision. I stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, my vision still a little blurry. A nurse pushed a medication cart in and checked the name tag above my bed. “The patient’s awake? How are you feeling?” I parted my lips slightly. “The baby?” The nurse took my blood pressure, her voice softening. “The baby was premature and underweight. We sent them straight to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit right after birth.” “They’re currently in an incubator for observation. You’re not strong enough to hold them yet.” Brenda turned her back, secretly wiping away tears. When she turned back around, her voice was still trembling. “You had a massive hemorrhage last night. When the doctors handed me the critical condition waiver, my hands were shaking so bad I could barely sign it.” “I called him over a dozen times, but he hung up every single one.” I didn’t speak, just slowly shifted my gaze to the phone on my pillow. The screen was lit, showing a few unread messages on Ins. All from Owen. “Still mad? Last night really was a client dinner for the project.” “The client added another round at the last minute, and I couldn’t say no. The whole team was depending on that deal.” “Eve said you called. Don’t get the wrong idea, she’s just a fresh grad who was kind enough to answer when I was too drunk.” “You’re pregnant, don’t be so paranoid. It’s not good for the baby.” I stared at that last sentence, a heavy feeling in my chest. Yesterday afternoon, at my prenatal check-up, the doctor said the baby’s heartbeat was abnormal and recommended immediate hospitalization. I called him, but he said he was in a meeting. That night, my stomach pains were so bad I couldn’t stand straight. My water broke right there on the living room floor. Brenda helped me wait for the ambulance, and I dialed his number with trembling hands. But it was Eve who answered. Her lighthearted voice mingled with the music from the private room. And then Owen’s casual words: “Use my phone, you know the password.” A nurse approached my bed with a stack of papers. “Karen, here are the baby’s admission forms and your visitor wristband. Please review the information and sign.” Brenda reached for them, but the nurse pointed to one line. “Here, the father’s information section is blank. No contact number either.” “If there’s any emergency with the baby, we need to be able to contact both parents immediately.”
Brenda froze, then turned to look at me. I braced myself on the bed rail, trying to sit up a little. The pulling pain from my incision made me gasp. “No need to fill in his name.” I took the pen and signed my name under ‘Mother.’ “Leave the father’s section blank. My mom is the only emergency contact.” The nurse looked at me hesitantly. “But hospital policy states that only immediate family members registered on the visitor list can enter the NICU. If the father isn’t registered, he won’t be allowed in.” “He doesn’t need to go in.” I handed the pen back to the nurse, my voice so calm it surprised even myself. “He won’t come anyway.” The nurse didn’t ask anything else, gathered the forms, and left. My phone vibrated again. A voice message from Owen popped up. “I have an investor meeting this morning, then I’m heading back to the office this afternoon.” “You stay home and rest, I’ll bring home those western desserts you love tonight.” “Don’t be mad anymore. Once the baby’s born, you’ll be too tired to cause trouble.” He didn’t even know I wasn’t home. He had no idea that the child he thought “still had two months to go” was currently lying in an incubator, hooked up to tubes. I didn’t reply, simply turned off the screen. Brenda tied the visitor wristband on my wrist. It read: “Karen’s Baby.” In my early pregnancy, when Owen first heard the baby’s heartbeat, his eyes were red-rimmed. He held my hand, pressing it against his face. He said, “Karen, from now on, you and our child are the most important people to me.” He even bought a thick “New Dad’s Guidebook” and solemnly wrote “Baby Countdown” on the cover. But now, the countdown had ended early. And the man who vowed to be the first to hold our child had given his private password and time to another woman. I closed my eyes, but no tears fell. I only had one instruction for the nurse. “Please set my room number to private. Don’t tell anyone.” “The baby can’t be held yet, Mama can only look for five minutes.” The nurse pushed my wheelchair, stopping me outside the NICU’s glass window. The corridor reeked of disinfectant, and the cold air seeped through my oversized hospital gown, chilling me to the bone. I gripped the armrests of the wheelchair, trying to straighten up and peer inside. In the incubator, a tiny body was curled up. Its skin was reddish-purple, and a thin IV was taped to its arm. So small, even breathing seemed incredibly strenuous. A transparent identification band was tied to its wrist. It clearly read in black marker: “Karen’s Baby”. The father’s section remained blank. I reached out through the glass, my fingertips pressed against the cold surface, as if I could feel its warmth. My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket. I pulled my hand back and took out the phone. It was a voice message from Eve. “Karen, Owen’s got a bad headache today. He fell asleep in the office.” “I gave him a hangover pill. Don’t blame him, the client was really difficult last night.” “He’s just trying to earn money for your baby’s formula, you know.” In the background, Owen’s slightly hoarse mumble could be heard. “Eve, get me some water.” “Coming right up, Owen.” The voice message ended abruptly there. I stared at the green bar on the screen, feeling a wave of nausea. I had just fought my way back from the brink of death, and I couldn’t even turn over without Brenda’s help.
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.
The screen showed “My Husband.” I pressed the answer button but didn’t speak immediately. Loud cheers and clinking glasses came from the other end. Owen’s voice held a hint of impatience. “Karen, how long are you going to keep this up?” “You don’t reply to my messages, and you won’t answer my calls.” “It’s Eve’s birthday, the whole project team is here. Is it appropriate for me not to show up?” He paused, his tone softening slightly, adopting his usual coaxing manner. “I know it was wrong of me not to answer your call last night.” “But you’re an adult. Don’t always act like a little girl, being passive-aggressive.” “How about this? Tomorrow, I’ll cancel my morning meeting and specifically go to your prenatal check-up with you, okay?” Listening to his matter-of-fact arrangements, I found it absurd. “Tomorrow, he’ll accompany me to my prenatal check-up.” He had no idea that the child he thought still needed prenatal check-ups was currently fighting for its life in the emergency room just through that wall. I looked at the closed emergency room door, my voice very soft. “Owen.” “What if something really happened to me last night?” The other end of the line went silent for a moment. The background noise seemed to fade a little; he must have stepped outside the private room. “What are you talking about?” His tone was clearly reproachful. “You’re pregnant, can you stop trying to scare me with talk like that?” “So I didn’t answer your call? Do you really have to bring yourself into it?” “The baby still has two months until birth, we have time to prepare everything.” “You’re being so sensitive and paranoid right now, it’s really giving me a headache.” Suddenly, I felt incredibly tired. I didn’t even have the energy to argue back. He attributed all his screw-ups and absences to my “pregnancy sensitivity.” He used his supposed logic to shut down my pleas for help completely. “Okay.” I responded calmly. “I’m not going to cause trouble anymore.” Owen seemed to let out a sigh of relief. “That’s right. You stay home and get some good rest.” “I’ll bring dessert back later.” The call disconnected. I tapped his profile picture and went into settings. I changed his contact name from “My Husband” to “Owen.” Then I opened the hospital app and, on the emergency contact page for the delivery room, I completely deleted his name. Brenda watched my actions, hesitant to speak. “Karen, are you really not going to tell him?” “He is the baby’s biological father, after all.” I looked at Eve’s latest SnapChat story. She had posted a photo of herself holding a cake, with Owen’s profile partially visible in the background. The caption read: “Thanks, Owen! Wish granted.” I closed SnapChat, opened my contacts, and dialed a number. “John, my lawyer, it’s me.” “Please draft a divorce settlement agreement for me.” “As quickly as possible.” “You’re pregnant, running off to the hospital without telling me?” Owen’s voice echoed down the outpatient clinic hallway. I was leaning against the wall, about to go to the front desk to pay the past two days’ hospital fees. The oversized hospital gown made me look pale and weak. I stopped and turned to the source of the voice. Owen, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, looked at me with a frown. His right arm was tightly linked with Eve’s. Eve was standing on one foot, leaning most of her weight against him. She was wearing a white dress today, the hem just reaching her knees, revealing a small red and swollen area on her ankle. “Karen, why are you at the hospital?”
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