Twelve Hours in One Chair
Hank had only been scheduled for a short shift.
Two hours.
Maybe three, if things stayed calm.
But Baby Girl Dalton rested best against him. Each time we tried to move her, her face tightened, her fingers curled, and a cry began to build again.
Hank would glance at me and quietly ask, “Could I stay a little longer?”
At first, I agreed because it helped the baby.
Then I agreed because it helped the entire room.
The other infants rested better without her constant crying. Nurses could focus more easily. Doctors moved more softly past bed six, as if something sacred was taking place.
Hank didn’t check his phone. He didn’t complain. He barely spoke unless someone addressed him directly.
By hour five, I brought him water.
“Your back must be hurting,” I said.
He gave a faint smile.
“My back’s complained louder for less.”
“You’re allowed to take a break.”
He looked down at the sleeping baby.
“She took one first.”
By hour seven, his shoulder had stiffened.
By hour nine, his leg had gone numb.
By hour eleven, his eyes were red with exhaustion.
Still, he didn’t move.
At hour twelve, Baby Girl Dalton remained asleep, one tiny hand resting near a tattoo on Hank’s wrist.
The tattoo read AVA.
I noticed the way his thumb hovered near those letters, brushing close without ever quite touching them.
“Someone important?” I asked softly.
Hank didn’t answer right away.
Then he said, “My daughter.”
The way he said it made it clear Ava wasn’t waiting for him at home.
