Part 3 — The Empty Carrier
About an hour later, I left my hospital room. The baby carrier hung from my arm. Empty.
I had brought it with me only days earlier, excitedly imagining the first drive home with our son sleeping inside it. Now every step caused it to bump against my leg. It felt heavier empty than it ever could have felt with my baby inside.
Brian walked several steps behind me. Neither of us spoke. The maternity hallway seemed impossibly long. Behind closed doors, I could hear newborn babies crying. Families laughing. Someone somewhere was taking photographs. I kept my eyes on the floor. Just keep walking, I told myself. Don’t turn around. If you turn around, you won’t be able to leave.
We were almost at the elevators when I heard footsteps rushing toward us. Fast footsteps.
“Wait!”
I stopped.
The nurse who had cared for me after the delivery was hurrying down the hallway. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were red. She looked as though she had been crying.
Brian immediately stiffened. “What is it?” he asked.
But she barely looked at him. She came directly to me.
“Please,” she said breathlessly. “Before you leave, there’s something you deserve to know.”
Brian stepped forward. “This isn’t necessary.”
The nurse ignored him. Her hands were shaking slightly as she held out a document.
I stared at it. “What is that?”
“A social services report.”
Brian’s expression changed. And for the first time since my son had been born, I felt something other than fear. Suspicion.
I took the paper.
