“What about her?”
“She smiled.”
I laughed nervously.
“Newborns don’t really smile yet.”
“I know.”
He nodded slowly.
“That’s why it was scary.”
That night, after both children were asleep, I lay awake replaying every moment from the hospital.
The labor.
The emergency rush when Lily’s heart rate briefly dropped.
The dozens of nurses coming and going.
The medications.
The exhaustion.
Could a mistake happen?
Hospitals always claimed they had strict identification procedures.
Electronic ankle bands.
Matching bracelets.
Security alarms.
It was practically impossible.
I hesitated before telling him everything Max had said.
Ethan listened patiently.
Then he sighed.
“Babe.”
“What?”
“He’s five.”
“I know.”
“He probably saw nurses changing blankets.”
“He specifically said bracelets.”
“Kids confuse details.”
“But what if—”
He interrupted gently.
“No.”
The certainty in his voice irritated me.
“You didn’t even consider it.”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“Impossible things happen.”
He reached over and squeezed my hand.
“You’re exhausted.”
“So you think this is postpartum anxiety?”
“I think you’re a new mom running on three hours of sleep.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked back at Lily.
She was beautiful.
Tiny nose.
Dark hair.
Perfect little fingers.
But…
She didn’t look anything like Max’s baby pictures.
Or Ethan’s.
Or mine.
Then again…
