Chapter 3

I stood outside the exam room for nearly half an hour, clutching a handful of crumpled bills.

The nurse's words sat heavy in my chest. "You're still sixty dollars short. You can't get a prenatal checkup without the full amount, let alone check in for delivery."

My fingers brushed over my belly, and the dragging ache flared up again. I bit down hard, turned around, and walked away without begging.

The hospital in this little coastal town didn't bend the rules for anyone. I had no family to call, and I didn't dare reach out to a single soul. The name Claire should have been buried at the bottom of the ocean a long time ago.

I cradled my stomach and shuffled out of the hospital, then made my way slowly down the sidewalk.

The sun beat down hard enough to make my head spin. I kept going until I spotted a tiny clinic at the end of an alley, with a faded sign hanging over the door.

The glass door was cloudy and yellowed. Inside, there was nothing but a metal-frame cot and an old doctor in reading glasses, standing guard over a medicine cabinet.

I pushed the door open, and my voice came out shaking. "Doctor, I'm about to have my baby. I can't afford the hospital. Is there any way you could deliver it here?"

The doctor looked me up and down and let out a sigh. "This place isn't set up for that. It's just me, no real equipment. The risks are serious. Are you sure about this?"

"I don't have a choice." I sank to the floor, and the tears finally broke loose. Not sobbing, not wailing. "I just want my baby to live."

The doctor was a kind man at heart, and he nodded after a moment. "Go ahead and stay. I'll cut you a deal on the bill. Just come up with two hundred dollars and we'll call it even."

I scrambled to pull out every last cent I had, counted it three times, but it only came to a hundred and five dollars.

I handed over the cash and then unclasped the silver bracelet from my wrist.

It was the only thing my mother had left me, and the only thing of value I owned. "Can this cover the rest?"

The doctor took the bracelet, turned it over in his hands, and slipped it into a drawer. "That'll do. Hang in there."

Over the next few days, I lay on a creaky metal cot in the clinic, living on the oatmeal the doctor made each morning and saving every ounce of strength I had.

The pain kept me up at night, so I would rest my hands on my belly and whisper to the baby. I told him to hold on a little longer, that once we made it through this, everything would be okay.

Then one night before dawn, the contractions hit like a bomb going off.

Wave after wave tore through me, and I bit down on my lip so hard the taste of blood filled my mouth. I twisted the bedsheet in my fists until my knuckles turned white, but I didn't even have the strength left to scream.

The old doctor stayed right beside me and pulled a small emergency lamp close. Its dim yellow light fell across my face, slick with cold sweat.

I lost track of how long it lasted. Then a faint, fragile cry broke through the silence, and every last drop of energy drained out of me in an instant.

He was a boy, a tiny warm bundle pressed against my chest. I could feel his heartbeat through my skin.

I named him Ethan Evans. All I wanted was for him to have a safe, steady life.

After leaving the clinic, I went back to my cramped attic apartment.

The old doctor returned my silver bracelet and told me to keep it as a keepsake for the baby. He even threw in two cans of cheap formula.

I scraped by on odd jobs at a diner, washing endless dishes and hauling crates of supplies.

I woke up through the night to feed Ethan, and the days ground down into a fine, bitter dust. But every time I looked down at his little face, I felt like I could keep going.

On his first birthday, I counted out every coin and crumpled bill I'd saved over six months. It came to about a thousand dollars. I held him tight and squeezed onto an early morning bus.

After hours of bumping along the highway, the bus dropped us into the neon glow of the city.

The air here smelled like money, and it carried exactly the kind of opportunity I needed. But I couldn't use the name Claire anymore.

On every resume I submitted, the name at the bottom read "Blaire Evans."

I was starting over, and I would raise my son on my art.