Daniel’s eyes stayed fixed on the blood bag’s rising volume. He shook off my hand impatiently. “Hold on—it’s almost done. Sophie’s life is on the line!”
It wasn’t until the nurse gasped, “The patient’s turning pale—she’s going into labor!” that panic flickered in his eyes. But by then, the blood bag was nearly full, my vision was fading, and a warm gush spread beneath me.
“Quick! Prep the delivery room—she’s going into premature labor!”
As they rushed me into surgery, the last thing I saw was Daniel standing in the hallway, caught between my emergency room and Sophie’s ward. After a few seconds of hesitation, he turned and ran to Sophie.
When I woke again, the sting of antiseptic filled my nose, making me cough. The bassinet beside me was empty. A nurse, her eyes red, told me gently, “Ma’am… I’m so sorry. The baby was too premature. He… he never breathed.”
It was as if someone had carved a piece out of my chest—so deep I couldn’t even feel the pain.
At some point, Daniel had returned, sitting at my bedside, his eyes rimmed red. He took my hand and choked out, “Claire, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for this to happen…”