I think I could navigate through them and never
come back.
“She’s beautiful, Erin,” he says, laughing and
crying at the same time. “She’s perfect, just like
you.”
I let out a liberating yell that runs through me
and God, it doesn’t hurt. I cry so badly that I can’t
see anything and Patrick is there to hold my hand
and dry my tears with all of the sweetness he is
capable of.
“She is in prenatal intensive care,” he explains.
“She’s small and her lungs are not fully developed
yet. But she’s strong and a fighter and is
responding well to therapy.”
I nod because I’m not stupid. I know that she
was born prematurely and that there will be a
million complications to face, but she has been
born and she is alive.
She is real.
All of this is real.
I let Patrick’s hands go and try to take my
oxygen mask off, because I want to tell him, I
want to ask forgiveness, I want him to know how
much I’ve missed him and how much I’d like to go
back to how things were.
He blocks my hand and shakes his head. Then
he kisses my forehead and tells me again to be
still, that I need to rest, that there’s no need for me
to say anything.
Then a nurse comes in and adds something to
