Part 2 — “We Can’t Do This”
Hours later, when the room was quieter and the medical staff had stepped away, Brian finally spoke.
“We can’t do this.”
At first, I thought I had misunderstood him.
“What?”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “We’re twenty-four years old. We don’t know anything about this. We’re not prepared.”
I felt something tighten inside my chest. “No first-time parents are prepared.”
“This is different.”
Different.
The word hung between us.
He began pacing beside the window. “Our entire life would change.”
“Our life already changed,” I said quietly. “We just had a baby.”
He looked at me then, but there was no excitement in his expression. Only fear.
“We aren’t ready for a life like this.”
A life like this. I would remember those four words for years.
At the time, though, I was exhausted, sore, emotional, and terrified. I needed someone beside me who would say, “We’ll learn.” I needed someone to tell me we would figure things out one day at a time.
Instead, the person I trusted most seemed certain that keeping our baby would destroy everything.
And when you are frightened enough, another person’s certainty can begin to sound like wisdom.
By the following morning, Brian had already spoken with someone from the hospital. A social worker arrived carrying documents. She sat beside my bed and calmly explained several options. I hardly heard her. My eyes kept moving toward the door. I wanted someone to bring my son back.
Brian remained beside me. He did not take my hand.
“It doesn’t necessarily have to be permanent,” he said.
I turned toward him. There was something about his voice that made my stomach twist. He spoke as if we were discussing a temporary arrangement. As if I simply needed time to recover. As if the decision could somehow be undone whenever I was ready.
But somewhere inside me, beneath the panic and exhaustion, I knew better. Goodbyes have a way of becoming permanent.
Before I signed anything, I asked to see my baby again. The nurse brought him into the room. He was sleeping. He looked unbelievably small beneath the blanket. I studied his face. There was no tragedy there. There was only a baby. My baby.
I reached down and touched his cheek. He shifted slightly at the warmth of my fingers. Something inside me screamed not to let go.
But another voice had become louder.
You’re too young. You’re not prepared. What kind of life can you give him? Maybe letting him go is the loving thing.
Brian stood nearby. I waited for him to tell me to stop. To say we should reconsider. He didn’t.
Eventually, the nurse took my son from my arms. And I signed the papers.
