Chapter 3 - Room 412
The transfer to Portland Memorial was a blur of fluorescent lights, the smell of sterile antiseptic, and the agonizing, rhythmic pressure of contractions that felt like they were tearing my body apart.
"Placental abruption," the ER physician, Dr. Sterling, muttered as they wheeled me into the high-risk delivery wing. "The trauma from the fall has caused the placenta to partially detach from the uterine wall. We don't have time for a natural delivery. We need to perform an emergency C-section. Now."
Daniel was forced to stay outside the sterile field as they prepped me for surgery. I looked through the glass window, watching him pace the hallway, his head in his hands, his face pale beneath the harsh hospital lights. He looked so small, so entirely broken by the horror of what my family had done.
The anesthesia hit my system, a cold wave that numbed my body but couldn't quiet the frantic, terrifying thoughts in my head.
Melissa has suffered enough. You can have another. The best thing for this baby is for Melissa to raise her.
They were willing to kill me to take my child.
When I finally woke up in the recovery room hours later, the room was dimly lit. The heavy rain was still tapping against the windowpane. I reached down, my hand instantly finding my flat, bandaged stomach.
A cold panic seized my throat. "My baby," I rasped, my throat raw from the intubation tube. "Where is my baby?"
"She’s here, Claire," a soft voice said from the corner of the room.
Daniel stepped out of the shadows. In his arms, he held a tiny, incredibly fragile bundle wrapped in pink flannel, hooked up to a small, portable oxygen monitor. He walked over to the bedside, his eyes red and swollen from crying, and gently laid our daughter against my chest.
"She’s tiny—only four pounds," Daniel whispered, a single tear spilling over his cheek. "But she’s a fighter, Claire. Her APGAR scores are improving by the hour. The doctors say she’s going to make it."
I looked down at the tiny, perfect face of my daughter. She had a tuft of dark hair, just like Daniel’s, and her tiny fingers were curled into a tight, defensive fist.
"Her name is Hope," I whispered, kissing her forehead.
"It’s perfect," Daniel said. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. "But we aren't safe yet, Claire. While you were in surgery, your mother’s attorney arrived downstairs. They’ve filed an emergency petition with the family court."
My heart rate monitor began to beep frantically. "What? How?"
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"They’re claiming you are mentally unstable," Daniel said, his voice trembling with a quiet, dangerous rage. "They’ve submitted a falsified medical history, signed by a private psychologist your mother has on her payroll, claiming you have a history of postpartum psychosis from a previous, nonexistent pregnancy. They are trying to use the assault incident to prove you are unfit, and they’ve requested temporary custody of Hope the moment she’s discharged."
They weren't stopping. Even with my blood on their kitchen floor, they were still trying to steal my child.
