Chapter 2 - HE CHOSE THE WEDDING|
“Natalie, listen to me,” Owen finally said. “I can't leave right now.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“It's Brooke's rehearsal. Everyone is here. The groom's family flew in from California, and the wedding planner is already losing her mind.”
I stared at the hospital ceiling.
“My daughter is dead.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know this is terrible.”
“Then come.”
He exhaled, sounding irritated.
“Can you just let me finish? I have responsibilities here. I'll come as soon as we wrap up.”
A nurse approached and gently placed a hand on my shoulder.
I could barely hear her.
“Owen, they're inducing labor. I might deliver her tonight.”
“Then let the doctors do what they need to do. You're in the best possible place.”
I looked at the empty chair beside my bed.
It was supposed to be his chair.
The one where he'd promised to hold my hand when our daughter arrived.
“You promised me,” I whispered. “You promised you would never leave me alone when it mattered.”
“Don't do this, Natalie.”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel like I'm choosing between you and Brooke. This is one evening. I'll be there tomorrow.”
One evening.
My daughter's entire life had ended, and my husband was worried about an evening.
Then Brooke's voice came through the phone again.
“Owen! Mom wants you in the photographs!”
He covered the receiver, but not quickly enough.
I heard him say, “I'm coming.”
Then he returned to the call.
“Get some rest. I'll call later.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone until the screen went black.
A nurse named Melissa sat beside me.
“Is your husband coming?”
I tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
She squeezed my hand.
“Do you have anyone else we can call?”
I thought of my mother, who had spent the last month discussing Brooke's wedding flowers. My father, who had always told me to be patient with Owen. Brooke herself, who had called me her second mother when we were children.
I had spent years being the dependable daughter, the understanding sister, the wife who never caused trouble.
I didn't want to beg any of them.
“Call my friend Rachel,” I whispered.
Rachel arrived forty minutes later, still wearing her office clothes. The moment she saw my face, she dropped her handbag.
“Oh, Nat.”
She wrapped her arms around me carefully.
I cried against her shoulder while the doctors prepared the medication.
The labor lasted through the night.
There were moments when I couldn't tell whether I was crying from the contractions or the unbearable knowledge of what was happening.
Rachel stayed beside me.
She held the water cup, wiped my forehead, and reminded me to breathe.
At 4:17 a.m., my daughter was born.
She was impossibly small.
The nurse wrapped her in a soft blanket and asked whether I wanted to hold her.
I nodded.
They placed her in my arms.
She had Owen's nose and my dark hair. Her tiny fingers were curled, as though she had been holding on to something.
I whispered the name we'd chosen months earlier.
“Lily.”
Rachel cried beside me.
I kissed Lily's forehead and told her I loved her.
I told her I was sorry.
I told her she would never have to be afraid of anything.
My phone lit up on the bedside table.
A message from Owen.
How are you feeling? The rehearsal ran late. I'll come by tomorrow.
I looked at my daughter.
Then I turned the phone facedown.
For the first time in five years, I didn't feel the need to explain why his behavior had hurt me.
May you like
I simply understood that he hadn't been there.
And he had chosen not to be.
