Brook
Day three in the NICU, and I'd memorized every be ep, every alarm, every subtle
shift in Sofia's breathing pattern. The nurses knew me by name now. Knew I'd be
there from early morning until they kicked me out at night. Knew I'd ask the same
questions over and over: Is she gaining weight? Is her oxygen saturation
improving? When can I hold her again? I was doing kangaroo care when I noticed
it—a small stuffed giraffe tucked beside Sofia's isolette. Soft yellow fabric, button
eyes, a blue ribbon around its neck. I'd never seen it before. "Where did this come
from?" I asked Sarah, one of the day nurses. She glanced over, smiled. "Oh, your
husband brought that yesterday morning. Early, before you got here. He said
giraffes were your favorite?" The words hit me like a physical blow. They were my
favorite. Tyson knew that. Had known that since we were sixteen and he'd won me
an enormous stuffed giraffe at the county fair, the one that still sat on the chair in
our bedroom. Our bedroom. Not mine. Not anymore. "We're s eparated," I said
quietly, and Sarah's smile faltered. "Oh. I'm so sorry, I didn't—" "It's fine." But it
wasn't fine. Nothing was fine. I stared at the giraffe, my vision blurring. He'd been
here. Had stood right where I was standing, had looked at our daughter through
this same plastic, had left her a gift because he couldn't be here when I was. I
wanted to throw the giraffe across the room. Wanted to hold it against my chest
and sob. Wanted to call him and scream at him for
making everything so complicated. Instead, I tucked it back beside Sofia's isolette
and focused on her tiny body against my bare chest, her heartbeat synchronizing
with mine. "You're doing so well, baby girl," I whispered. "You're getting stronger
every day. Mama's so proud of you." But my voice cracked on the last word, and the
tears came anyway. Across the NICU, I could see another couple at their baby's
isolette. The father had his arm around the mother's shoulders, and they were both
smiling at something the nurse was saying. Together. Supporting each other
through the terror and uncertainty. That should have been us. Tyson should have
been here, his hand on my back, whispering reassurances, marveling at how Sofia's
fingers wrapped around mine. We should have been taking shifts, spelling each
other so we could both rest. Should have been going home together, collapsing into
bed exhausted but united. Instead, I was alone. And he was... where? At his
apartment? At Caleb's? Sitting in his truck in the parking lot, hoping for a glimpse
of me? I didn't know. Didn't want to know. Exc ept I did. God, I did. My phone
buzzed in my pocket. Lake's name flashed on the screen, and I carefully extracted it
without disturbing Sofia. A photo. Preston in the backyard, pushing his toy truck
through the grass, his face scrunched in concentration. The caption read: He
misses you. Ke eps asking when you and Sofia are coming home. The sob that tore
out of me startled Sarah, who hurried over.
"Brook? Are you okay? Do you need to—" "I'm fine." But I wasn't. I was breaking
apart, piece by piece. My daughter was in the NICU. My son was at home without
me. My husband—ex-husband, soon-to-be ex-husband—had destroyed everything,
and I was supposed to just... what? Figure it out? Move on? "Why don't you take a
break?" Sarah suggested gently. "Get some coffee, walk around a bit. Sofia's stable,
and I'll come get you if anything changes." I didn't want to leave her. Couldn't stand
the thought of Sofia waking up and me not being there. But my body was screaming
at me—the ache in my breasts from pumping, the de ep soreness from delivery, the
exhaustion that went bone-de ep. In the family lounge, I found Lake waiting with
coffee and a sandwich I wouldn't eat. "You need to go home," she said without
preamble. "Just for a few hours. See Preston. Take a shower. Sle ep in a real bed." "I
can't leave her." "Sofia's going to be here for weeks, Brook. You can't live at the
hospital that entire time." Lake's voice was gentle but firm. "Preston needs you too.
And you need to take care of yourself." My phone rang. Patricia Mathis's name on
the screen. "I should take this," I said, and Lake nodded, st epping away to give me
privacy. "Brook, how are you feeling?" Patricia's voice was warm, professional. "I
heard about the baby. Congratulations." "Thank you." The word felt automatic,
hollow.
"I wanted to check in about the divorce proceedings. We can file the papers
whenever you're ready, but given the circumstances—Sofia's birth, her time in the
NICU—we might want to wait a few weeks. Unless you want to move forward now?"
Did I? The papers were drawn up, ready to go. I could sign them, file them, make it
official. Start the clock on the end of my marriage. "I don't know," I whispered. "I
don't know what I want." "That's okay. You don't have to decide today. But Brook?"
Patricia paused. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's what you want. Not what you
think you should want. Not what will hurt him most. What you actually want for
yourself and your children." After we hung up, I sat there for a long time, staring at
Preston's photo on my phone. My beautiful boy, who didn't understand why his
world had fallen apart. Who just wanted his mama and his daddy and his baby sister
home. When I went back to the NICU, visiting hours were almost over. I settled into
the chair beside Sofia's isolette, slipping my hand through the opening to touch her
tiny fingers. "I don't know what to do, baby girl," I whispered. "I'm so angry at your
daddy. So hurt. But I'm also so tired, and I miss him, and I hate that I miss him."
The tears were flowing freely now, and I didn't bother wiping them away. "This
should have been different. You should have been born at home, full-term and
healthy. Your daddy should have been there, holding my hand. We should be
bringing you home to your brother, all of us together." Sofia shifted slightly, her
little face scrunching. "But he broke us. He broke everything. And I don't know if
we can ever fix it." My voice cracked. "I don't know if I even want to try. Because
what if he does it again? What if next time someone tells
him a lie, he believes them too? How do I trust him with my heart when he already
shattered it once?" The NICU was quiet exc ept for the machines, the soft be eping
and whooshing that had become my soundtrack. Other parents had gone home for
the night. The nurses were doing their rounds. And I was alone with my daughter,
crying over everything we'd lost, everything that should have been different,
wondering how the hell we'd gotten here. Wondering if there was any way back.