Tyson
Twenty-seven hours. That's how long I'd been at the hospital when River finally sat
down beside me in the waiting room. I looked like hell—I could see my reflection in
the dark window across from me. Unshaven, eyes bloodshot, wearing the same
clothes I'd thrown on when Lake called. I smelled like sweat and the bitter hospital
coffee I'd been forcing down to stay awake. Not that I could sle ep. Every time I
closed my eyes, I saw Brook's face when she'd told me to leave. Saw Sofia's tiny
chest struggling to rise and fall. "How is she?" I asked immediately. "Sofia. Is she—"
"She's stable," River said. His voice was flat, emotionless. "The doctor said her
lungs are underdeveloped. She'll need to stay in the NICU for several weeks at
least, maybe longer d epending on how she progresses." Several weeks. My baby
girl would be in that plastic box for weeks, and I couldn't even hold her. Couldn't be
there for her. "And Brook?" River's jaw tightened. "She's recovering. She's with
Sofia now." "Can I—" "No." He cut me off before I could finish. "She doesn't want to
see you, Tyson. I'm sorry, but that's not changing." I'd heard those words a dozen
times in the past day. From Lake, from Lacey, from the nurses who looked at me
with pity when I asked if I could see my wife. Each time felt like a knife twisting
de eper. "I just want to know she's okay. I just want to—"
"She's not okay." River's voice was hard now, angry. "She gave birth without you
there. My baby sister went through that alone- still going through it because of
what you did. So no, she's not fucking okay." I deserved that. Deserved worse. "I
need to see Sofia again," I said, standing up. My legs were unsteady—I couldn't
remember the last time I'd eaten. "Just for a few minutes." River grabbed my arm.
"Tyson, sit down." "I need to see my daughter—" "Visiting hours are restricted in
the NICU. You know that. They told you yesterday." He pulled me back down into
the chair. "Only parents can visit outside those hours, and Brook has made it very
clear you're not welcome while she is in there." The words hit me like a physical
blow. Not welcome. To see my own daughter. "She's my baby too," I whispered.
"She's mine too." "Then you should have thought about that before you walked out
on her mother and brother." I couldn't argue. Couldn't defend myself. He was right.
They were all right. We sat in silence for a long moment. The waiting room was
nearly empty—just an elderly man dozing in the corner and a young couple
whispering anxiously near the vending machines. "You need to go home," River
finally said. "I can't leave them. I can't—" "Preston needs you." River's voice
softened slightly. "He's been with Lake and Fisher since yesterday, and he's asking
for you. For both of
you. He doesn't understand what's happening, and he needs his dad." Preston. God,
Preston. I'd been so consumed with Brook and Sofia that I'd barely thought about
my son. About how confused and scared he must be. "Brook won't let you see Sofia
when she is with her, but Preston needs you," River continued. "So go home. Be
there for him. It's the least you can do." The drive home took forever and no time at
all. My hands shook on the steering wheel. I k ept glancing at my phone on the
passenger seat, hoping for a message from Brook that never came. When I pulled
into the driveway, I barely recognized the house. It looked the same from the
outside, but it felt wrong. Empty. Like something vital had been ripped out of it.
Lake's car was parked on the street. I sat in my truck for a full minute, trying to
gather the strength to go inside, before finally forcing myself out. Lake opened the
door before I could knock. Her expression was carefully neutral. "He's in the living
room," she said quietly. "Fisher's with him." I st epped inside, and my breath caught.
Boxes. Everywhere. Stacked against the walls, labeled in Brook's neat handwriting.
Tyson - Clothes. Tyson - Books. Tyson - Misc. My entire life, packed up and ready to
be removed. "Daddy!" Preston came running from the living room, and I dropped to
my knees just in time to catch him. He crashed into me, his small arms
wrapping around my neck, and I held him so tight I was afraid I might hurt him.
"Hey, buddy," I managed, my voice breaking. "Hey, I missed you." "Where's
Mommy? Where's baby Sofia?" He pulled back to look at me, his eyes—Brook's
eyes—wide and worried. "Auntie Lake said they're at the hospital. Are they sick?" I
carried him to the couch, settling him on my lap. Fisher gave me a nod and quietly
left the room with Lake. "Sofia came a little early," I said, smoothing Preston's hair
back. "She's smaller than she's supposed to be, so she has to stay at the hospital for
a while. And Mommy's staying there to take care of her." "When are they coming
home?" The question broke something in me. "I don't know, buddy. A few weeks,
maybe. Sofia needs to get bigger and stronger first." "Can we visit them?" Could
we? Would Brook even let me bring Preston to see her? To see his sister? "Maybe
soon," I said, hating myself for the lie. "Mommy needs to rest right now." Preston
was quiet for a moment, then: "Are you and Mommy fighting?" Jesus. He was four
years old and he could see right through me. "Yeah," I admitted, because I couldn't
lie to him about that. "We are. But it's not your fault, okay? None of this is your
fault." "Is it my fault Sofia came early?" "No." I pulled him close again. "No,
Preston, none of this is because of you. You didn't do anything wrong."
But I had. I'd done everything wrong. After Preston was in bed—in his room,
because I couldn't bring myself to sle ep in the bedroom I'd shared with Brook—I
walked through the house like a ghost. The boxes seemed to multiply in the dim
light. Evidence of everything I'd lost. I tried calling Brook. It went straight to
voicemail. I sent another text, my fingers clumsy on the screen. Please talk to me.
Please let me explain. I know I don't deserve it, but please. I love you. I love Sofia. I
love Preston. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry for everything. The message showed
as delivered. Not read. I ended up in the nursery. The room we'd painted together
three months ago, laughing as we argued over the exact shade of lavender. Brook
had won, like she always did, and the walls were the soft purple she'd wanted. The
crib was assembled, waiting. The mobile hung above it, little stars and moons that
would have spun gently while Sofia sl ept. But Sofia wasn't here. She was in a
plastic box two floors up in a hospital, and I couldn't even sit beside her. I sank
down onto the floor, my back against the crib, and let myself shatter completely.
Great, heaving sobs that tore out of my chest, tears that wouldn't stop, grief so
overwhelming I thought it might kill me. My wife hated me. My daughter was
fighting to breathe. My son was asking questions I couldn't answer. And I was alone
in an empty nursery, surrounded by boxes of my belongings, with nothing but my
guilt and the devastating knowledge that I'd destroyed everything that mattered.
I'd done this. All of it. And I had no idea how to make it right. Or if I even could.