Those words broke something inside him.
He drove to the hospital like a man possessed, trying to outrun the weight of his regret. He waited outside the delivery room for hours — hands trembling, chest tight, his mind replaying every ignored call, every angry word. When the doctor finally appeared, he could barely breathe.
But instead of delivering tragedy, the doctor led him into a quiet, dimly lit room.
I was there — alive — cradling our newborn daughter.
His knees gave out. The tears came all at once — not from grief, but from pure, overwhelming relief. All the anger, all the pride that had divided us melted away in that instant.
