Then she drove away.
I stood there alone, bent over in pain, watching her car disappear.
Inside the delivery room, the nurses kept asking if someone was coming.
“My boyfriend should be here soon,” I whispered.
But he never came.
At some point during labor, I realized he had blocked my number.
Blocked.
While I was giving birth to his son.
I cried so hard one of the nurses held my hand through the contractions.
After sixteen exhausting hours, my baby boy entered the world screaming.
And I was alone.
I remember holding him against my chest, tears soaking his tiny hat.
I loved him instantly.
But underneath that love was unbearable grief.
I didn’t know where we would go.
I didn’t know how I would survive.
A few hours later, my phone buzzed.
I expected another excuse from Tyler.
Instead, it was Denise.
“Your dad just arrived at the hospital.”
My heart stopped.
For a second, I thought I was hallucinating.
My father?
I stared at the message over and over.
Then I slowly climbed out of the hospital bed, wincing from the pain. My legs trembled as I carried my son toward the door.
I opened it with shaking hands.
And there he was.
For illustrative purposes only
My father stood in the hallway holding a small, worn-out suitcase.
The same old brown suitcase he used during work trips when I was little.
In one hand, he carried a thermos.
