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My newborn son had been in my arms for only a few minutes when my husband suddenly leaned close and whispered something that made my entire body go cold.
“Don’t fill out the birth certificate until I come back. Promise me you’ll wait.”
Then he grabbed his jacket and walked out of the hospital room.
My son was barely seven minutes old.
And I had no idea where his father was going.
The delivery room still smelled sharply of antiseptic.
Our baby was curled against my chest, warm and impossibly small, already asleep as though the previous fourteen hours had exhausted him too.
I was crying quietly.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because after nine months of waiting, he was finally here.
I looked toward James, expecting him to smile.
Maybe say something about our son’s nose.
Maybe joke that we had somehow survived labor.
Instead, my husband bent down until his lips were close to my ear.
“Olivia, don’t fill in the birth certificate until I get back.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Just wait for me. Please.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
There was no panic in his expression.
No visible emotion.
He said it almost as casually as if he were reminding me to buy groceries.
Then he kissed the top of my head, picked up his jacket, grabbed his car keys, and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“James?”
He didn’t come back.
Our son stirred once against my chest before settling again.
I stared at the door.
And waited.
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