I looked past him. On Charity's phone screen, still glowing bright, was footage of me—writhing, screaming, giving birth.
She caught my gaze. Her smile stretched wider.
"Hey, sis," she chirped.
Then her finger accidentally grazed the volume button.
My own voice—raw, guttural, shattered with pain—exploded through the hospital room.
My whole body locked up.
In the bassinet beside me, my newborn startled awake. Her tiny mouth opened, and a thin, reedy cry spilled out.
That sound. It was like a thousand needles driving straight into my chest.
I forced myself upright, reaching for her with trembling hands to soothe her, then whipped my head back toward them.
"Turn it off. Delete it. Now."
Charity pouted and glanced at Brendan.
"It was an accident."
"See, I told you she'd throw a fit."
Brendan frowned. He set the glass down, sat on the edge of my bed, and his voice came out clipped with irritation.
"Babies cry. It's healthy. Is this really necessary?"
My hand stilled on my daughter's back.
Something cold clicked into place in my mind.
"When she came out of the delivery room," I said, my voice flat, empty of anything, "who held her first?"
Brendan blinked.