My baby lay in an incubator with tubes down his throat, too weak even to cry.

And my husband was asleep somewhere, tucked in under another woman's care.

He'd even let her use that half-wife tone to report his whereabouts to me, as if it were nothing.

A nurse came over and handed me a slip of paper.

"Mila, this is your baby's monitoring bill for the last two days."

"Preemie care in the incubator runs high. You'll need to go to the billing office and top up the deposit first."

I nodded and took the slip.

The number on it was not small.

I opened my banking app and transferred the money from my card to the hospital account, the motions automatic by now.

Back during the checkups, Eric had always rushed to pay.

He'd sat beside me through the 4D ultrasound, eyes fixed on the blurry little shape on the screen, unable to look away.

"Look at his little hands, how strong they are."

"Once he's born, I'm buying him the best crib. Only the best of everything."

Those words were still fresh in my ears.

But now, when there was actual responsibility to carry, he was nowhere to be found.

I'd barely finished paying when another message from Eric popped up.

"Babe, I'm awake."

"Still a little dizzy. Might be home late tonight."

"Eat dinner without me, don't wait up."

He was still calling me babe.

The word looked like a joke now.

He thought I was still home. He thought I was just sulking because he'd missed my call.

He had no idea I'd already stopped waiting for him.

I set the phone to silent and put it back in my pocket.

"Nurse, could you take me back, please."

The wheelchair had only just turned when an alarm started shrieking from the monitoring room.

A doctor in scrubs walked out fast, a document in hand.

"Is Mila Fox's family here?"

My mother hurried to him.

"Yes, I'm her mother."

The doctor's face was grave.

"The baby just stopped breathing and his heart rate dropped. We're carrying out emergency intervention."

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

My mother went white with fear, her hands shaking too hard to hold the pen.

I forced myself to lean out of the wheelchair and snatched the pen.

"I'll sign."

The nib dragged across the paper with a harsh scratch.

I wrote my name, every stroke draining the last of my strength.

The moment I handed the form back to the doctor.

The screen lit up. Eric had sent a photo.

A cake with a candle in it.

The caption read: "It's Maria's birthday tonight, team dinner, home later."

"Apnea in preemies is common, but we can never take it lightly."

The doctor held my signed form, his tone serious.

"The baby's lungs aren't fully developed. The next twenty-four hours are critical."

"The family should be prepared. He may need to be resuscitated again at any time."

I sank back against the wheelchair, nails digging deep into my palm.

"I understand. Please, do everything you can."

The red light above the emergency room door came on, too harsh to look at straight.

The corridor was so quiet I could hear nothing but the hum of the exhaust fan.

My mother sat on the row of chairs beside me, hands pressed together, murmuring something under her breath without pause.

I looked down at my phone screen.

That photo of the cake from Eric was still sitting at the bottom of the thread.

A dainty fondant cake, "Happy Birthday Maria" written across the top.

I didn't reply.

A few minutes later, his call came through.

The screen read Hubby.

I pressed answer and didn't rush to speak.

On the other end came a clatter of cheering and clinking glasses.

Eric's voice carried a thread of impatience.

"Mila, how long are you going to keep this up?"

"You don't reply to my texts, you don't pick up my calls."

"It's Maria's birthday, the whole team's here. How would it look if I didn't show?"

He paused, his tone easing a little, sliding into that same old coaxing register.

"I know not answering your call last night was my fault."

"But you're a grown woman. Stop acting like some sulky little girl."

"Tomorrow I'll cancel the morning meeting and take you to your checkup myself. Happy now?"

I listened to him lay it all out like he had every right to, and it just felt absurd.

Take me to my checkup tomorrow.

He had no idea that the child he still thought needed a checkup was on the other side of one wall, in the resuscitation room, hanging between life and death.

I looked at the sealed doors of that room. My voice came out soft.

"Eric."

"What if something had really happened to me last night?"

The line went quiet for a beat.

The noise behind him seemed to recede a little. He must have stepped out of the room.

"What are you talking about?"

The reproach in his voice was unmistakable now.

"You're pregnant. Can you stop scaring me with things like that?"

"You missed one call. Do you have to curse yourself like this?"

"The baby's not due for another two months. We've got time to get everything ready."

"You being this sensitive and paranoid right now, honestly, it's exhausting."

A sudden tiredness washed over me.

I didn't even have the strength left to argue.

Every gap, every absence, he folded it all into my pregnancy nerves.

He used that self-assured reason of his to wall off my cry for help completely.

"Fine."

I answered calmly.

"I won't make a fuss anymore."

Eric seemed to breathe out in relief.

"That's more like it. Get some good rest at home."

"I'll bring chestnut cake back later."

The call ended.

I opened his contact and went into the settings.

I changed his label from Hubby to Eric Joyce.

Then I opened the hospital app, found the delivery ward's emergency contact page, and deleted his name from it completely.

My mother watched what I was doing, words caught on her lips.

"Mila, you're really not going to tell him?"

"He is the baby's father, after all."

I looked at the post Maria had just put up online.

She'd uploaded a photo of herself holding a cake, half of Eric's profile showing in the background.

The caption read: "Thank you, Eric. Wish granted."

I closed the app, opened my contacts, and dialed a number.

"Lawyer Chavez, it's me."

"I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me."

"As fast as you can."

"You're pregnant and you came to the hospital without telling me?"

Eric's voice rang out in the corridor of the clinic lobby.

I was bracing myself against the wall, on my way to the front window to settle these last two days of hospital fees.

The hospital gown hung loose on me, making me look pale and drained.

I stopped and turned toward the voice.

Eric stood there in a sharp suit, brow furrowed as he looked at me.

His right arm was held tight in Maria's grip.

She was balanced on one foot, most of her weight leaning into him.

She had on a white dress today, the hem falling just to her knees, a small patch of red and swollen skin showing at her ankle.

"Why's his wife at the hospital?"

Maria blinked up at him, her voice all syrup.

"Are you here for a checkup?"

Eric didn't push her off. He stepped forward instead, reproach all over his tone.

"Didn't I tell you I'd come with you tomorrow?"

"You're this far along, and you go wandering off alone?"

"What if you'd tripped, knocked into something?"

Then he looked at how pale I was, and something finally registered as off.

"Why do you look so awful? What did the doctor say?"

I looked at the righteous concern on his face and found it almost funny.

I'd been admitted three days giving birth, and he'd spent them throwing a coworker a birthday party and babysitting her hurt foot.

Now we ran into each other in a hospital, and his first instinct wasn't to ask why I was in a patient's gown. It was to scold me for being disobedient, for running around.

"I'm fine."

I pulled my eyes back, my voice flat.

"Go do whatever you need to do."

I turned and kept walking toward the payment window.

Clearly Eric wasn't used to me being this cold.

He let go of Maria, strode over, and grabbed my arm.

"Mila, what's with the attitude?"

"Maria twisted her ankle on the stairs at the office. I'm her supervisor. What's wrong with bringing her in to get it looked at?"

"Can you stop assuming the worst about everyone?"

Behind him, Maria hopped twice on one foot and hissed through the pain.

"Eric, don't be hard on her."

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have troubled you."

"She's just misunderstood, that's all. I'll go right now."

She started to hop toward the door on one leg, swayed, and nearly went down.

Eric let go of my arm at once, turned, and crossed over in a few long strides to catch her.

"Your foot's swollen like that and you're still trying to be tough?"

He steadied her, then turned his head to me, his eyes full of disappointment.

"Mila, you never used to be this unreasonable."

"Maria's just a girl fresh out of school. What are you fighting with her for?"

I looked down at my own empty arm.

Where he'd gripped it, there was a faint red mark.

There was a time I'd only have to nick my finger chopping vegetables and he'd be scrambling for a bandage.

Now I'd just come back from the edge of death, and he thought I was throwing a tantrum.

My mother came from the elevators with a few slips of paper in her hand.

When she saw Eric and Maria wrapped around each other, she was shaking with rage.

"Eric, what are you doing here?"

She rushed over and pulled me behind her.

Eric froze for a second and let go on reflex.

"Mom, why are you here too?"

"Maria twisted her ankle. I brought her in to get it checked."

He explained it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My mother was so angry she raised her hand, but I caught it.

"Mom, let's go pay."

I didn't want to fight with him in the hospital lobby.

There was no point.

Just then, the elevator doors opened a little way off.

A nurse came out fast with a stack of papers and called across the lobby.

"Mila Fox's family! Is Mila Fox's family here?"

"The resuscitation bill from the NICU is ready. Please go to the window and settle it right away!"

Eric's body went rigid.

He frowned, turned, and looked at the nurse, confused.

"Mila? The NICU?"