After giving birth to our son just three days ago, my husband asked me to take a taxi home alone with the baby, while he drove my luxury car to have a lavish dinner with his family at a restaurant he booked months before. Desperate and exhausted, I called my dad and said tonight, I want him to go!
The sterile antiseptic smell of the private suite at Manhattan’s Presbyterian Hospital was supposed to be a memory by now. I, Amelia Sinclair, had been counting down the hours, 3 days.
For 72 hours, I’d existed in a bubble of fatigue, overwhelming love, and a deep, bone soreness that nobody truly prepares you for. In my arms, swaddled in a cashmere blanket my mother had brought, was the reason for it all.
Liam, my son, our son. His tiny face was peaceful in a way that made my heart clench. I glanced at the clock on the wall for 15 p.m.
Discharge paperwork should have been here by now. Tristan, my husband, was pacing near the window, his phone pressed to his ear
He wasn’t wearing the sweats he’d promised he’d wear for the drive home. Instead, he was in a crisp button-down shirt, the kind he reserved for important client dinners.
“I understand,” he was saying into the phone, his voice alone, practiced murmur. “Yes, of course. We appreciate you holding it.”
“We’ll be there by 7. Thank you, Jean Pierre.” He ended the call and turned to me.
A brilliant, excited smile on his face. It was the smile that had charmed me across a crowded charity gala two years ago.
Right now, it felt misplaced. “That was the matraee at Lou Bernardine,” Tristan said, slipping the phone into his pocket, “just confirming our reservation.”
“He heard we had the baby and sent his congratulations.” I shifted Liam carefully. “Tristan, the doctor still hasn’t come by.”
“We need to get Liam home.”
“I know, I know,” he said, waving a dismissive hand, “but can you believe it? 3 months we waited for this reservation. 3 months and John Pierre himself is holding our table.”
“My parents are already on their way into the city. They’re so excited.” A cold trickle of dread started in my chest.
“Your parents? I thought I thought the plan was for you to drive us home together. Our first night as a family.”
“My mom had a whole meal being sent over from Daniel.” Tristan’s smile tightened at the edges. “Amelia, be reasonable.”
“That’s just reheated food. This is Lou Bernardine. This is an experience.”
“My parents have been looking forward to this for months.”
“Your parents have?” I felt my voice rise and Liam stirred in his sleep.
I lowered it to a harsh whisper. “Tristan, I just pushed a human being out of my body. I haven’t slept for more than 2 hours straight in 3 days.”
“I want to go home to our bed with our son.” He walked over and perched on the edge of my bed, putting a hand on my leg.
It felt heavy, not comforting. “Sweetheart, I know you’re tired, but look, you and Liam are perfectly safe here. The hospital is the safest place you could be.”
“I’ll get you both settled in a car service. The best one, and I’ll be home right after dinner. We’ll celebrate properly then.”
“A car service?” I stared at him, disbelief washing over me. “You’re going to have me and our 3-day old son take a taxi home while you take my car to a fancy dinner with your parents?”
The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp. Tristan’s face hardened.
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