Part 4 — What Brian Had Done
At first, I could barely understand what I was reading. My mind was still foggy from the delivery, lack of sleep, and everything that had happened since.
Then one sentence caught my attention. I read it twice. Then a third time.
According to the report, my husband had specifically requested that hospital staff limit the baby’s visits with me.
I looked up. “What does this mean?”
The nurse’s eyes filled with tears again. “Your husband asked us to stop bringing your son into your room so often.”
I turned toward Brian. He looked away.
My hands began to shake. “You told them not to bring my baby to me?”
“I was trying to help you.”
“Help me?”
“You were emotional. You weren’t thinking clearly.”
The words struck me with astonishing force. Because I had heard versions of them repeatedly since the birth.
Get some rest. Don’t overwhelm yourself. You’re exhausted. Let me handle this. Trust me.
I looked back at the document. There was more. The social worker had written that I appeared to be under significant pressure while making the decision. Another section described my behavior whenever my son was brought into the room. I had repeatedly asked to see him. I had cried when he was taken away. I had reached for him. I had asked questions about feeding him, holding him, and staying close to him.
The report described something I had somehow stopped believing about myself.
I had wanted my child. Not abstractly. Not someday. From the beginning. I had wanted him beside me.
The nurse spoke carefully. “Every time we brought him in, you reached for him.”
I could not speak.
“You asked about him constantly,” she continued. “You wanted to hold him longer. You asked when he would come back.”
I looked down at the empty carrier. A horrifying realization began settling over me.
Perhaps I had not made this decision because I wanted to surrender my son. Perhaps I had been terrified. And someone I trusted had used that fear to convince me that giving him away was the only responsible choice.
