He drove for nearly an hour, far beyond our neighborhood and into unfamiliar areas. Eventually, he pulled into the parking lot of a worn-down building. A flickering sign read: Hope Recovery Center.
I parked nearby and watched him sit in his car for a while, as if gathering courage. Then he stepped inside.
My mind raced with possibilities. Was he ill? Was there someone else?
I moved closer and heard voices through a slightly open window.
“The hardest part,” a man was saying, “is looking at your child and remembering how close you came to losing everything.”
I froze. That voice—it was Ryan’s.
Peeking inside, I saw a small group seated in a circle. Ryan sat among them, his head lowered, his shoulders trembling.
“I keep reliving it,” he said. “I see her in pain, the doctors rushing, and I’m holding our baby while my wife might be dying. Every time I look at my daughter, I’m taken back to that moment.”
A woman spoke gently. “That kind of trauma affects people differently. What you’re feeling is very common for partners who witness difficult births.”
Tears streamed down his face. “I love my wife. I love my daughter. But when I look at Lily, all I can think about is how close I came to losing Julia. I’m scared that if I let myself get too attached, it could all be taken away.”
