My husband, Daniel, hadn’t shown up for the birth.
And the next morning, while I was still alone in that hospital room learning how to hold my daughter with one arm and sign paperwork with the other, my mother and sister walked through the door wearing sunglasses, carrying a pink gift bag, and looking terrified.
They weren’t there to apologize.
They were there to beg.
My mother, Patricia Hale, had never looked nervous a day in her life.
She was the kind of woman who could insult a cashier, a waitress, or a crying child without blinking, then act offended if anyone challenged her. Vanessa had inherited that same polished cruelty, right down to the expensive perfume and dramatic gestures. But when they stepped into my hospital room that morning, both of them looked pale beneath their makeup.
Vanessa closed the door behind her and forced a smile. “Melanie,” she said softly, as if we were close. “How are you feeling?”
I stared at her in disbelief. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, she had called me selfish for going into labor on her birthday.
My mother held up the gift bag. “We brought something for the baby.”
I didn’t respond. Lily was asleep against my chest, wrapped in the hospital blanket, and every instinct in me told me to protect her from the women standing just a few feet away.
“Put that on the chair,” I said flatly.
