The question didn’t sound cruel. It sounded necessary—the kind of line hospitals have to draw so paperwork knows where to stand. Still, it landed like glass.
Nora’s breath hitched. She looked down at the baby’s tiny mouth, at the milk-sweet breath she hadn’t fed yet, and tried to make a sentence that could hold both truth and mercy.
Dr. Patel softened his tone. “We need a name for the birth record. Medical history, contact information—any detail helps us care for your child.” The nurse nodded, already pen-poised over the form.
Nora blinked hard. The room blurred at the edges, the beeping monitor suddenly too loud. She traced a fingertip along the baby’s cheek and felt her own hands shake.
“I… I don’t know if you’ll believe me,” she whispered, voice barely air. The doctor pulled a stool closer, letting the sightline drop until they were eye to eye.
“We’re here to listen,” he said. “Start where it makes sense to you.” The nurse adjusted the blanket, creating a small cocoon of warmth as if the right temperature might make the truth easier to hold.
The baby squirmed, rooting. Nora turned slightly, the instinct to protect older than any law. She took a breath she didn’t quite own yet.
“It’s complicated,” she said, guts twisting. “And it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
Dr. Patel didn’t move. He just waited, steady as a lighthouse that knows storms don’t take orders.
