When I opened my eyes, the room was dark and quiet, the sterile scent of the clinic still sharp in my nose. For a few seconds, I couldn't remember where I was—just that I hurt. Everywhere. Every inch of my body ached like I'd been hit by a truck. Not just the parts I expected either—my back, hips, and legs—but my hands, arms, even my neck felt like I'd fought a war in my sleep.
Then I looked down.
The baby—my baby—was resting on my chest, bundled in a blanket, his tiny face smushed against me as he slept.
Everything else melted away.
This was real. I did it. He's here.
I smiled, stroking a hand gently over the soft patch of curls at the top of his head. I didn't think anything could ruin this.
And then they walked in.
The air shifted the second the door opened—cold, heavy, and suffocating. My body tensed, instincts screaming at me before my brain even registered what I was seeing.
My parents stood just inside the room.
