I stared at him.
He said it again, slower this time, as if I were stupid. “Our daughter was stillborn.”
I shook my head immediately. Hard. Violently. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, because I held her.”
He said nothing.
And then I knew.
Hospital rooms blur. Pain meds blur. Bleeding and monitors and exhaustion blur. I remembered flashes, not sequences. A nurse laying the baby on my chest. Daniel crying. Me too weak to lift my head all the way.
I remembered thinking she felt cold.
I remembered them taking her quickly because they said she needed checks.
I remembered Daniel saying, “She’s okay. Rest.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
He looked away.
“You switched them.”
He didn’t answer.
I lunged at him then. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to make us both stumble. “You let me nurse another woman’s baby.”
“Hannah—”
“You let me name her.”
His voice sharpened. “I was trying to save this family.”
I went still.
Then I said, “Save it from what?”
That was when the second part came out.
Not in one confession. In pieces. Ugly, greedy pieces.
His parents’ money had been drying up for months. His father’s trust was tied to appearances, legacy, grandchildren, “stability.” We were already drowning in debt I hadn’t known the full extent of. Daniel’s bad investments. Credit lines.
