Chapter 6
It was six in the morning when my phone buzzed and woke me up. It was not my alarm but a WhatsApp message.
There were sixty-seven messages, all from the same person: Henry Carter.
I had blocked him on WhatsApp for eight months
When did he add me back?
I opened the WhatsApp.
It was 1:32 a.m. yesterday, shortly after I had been taken into surgery.
The first message read, [You didn't change your WhatsApp number.]
The second message read, [Your password is still your birthday plus mine.]
How did Henry know my WhatsApp password? When had I ever told him?
But that wasn't the point.
I quickly scrolled down.
Messages three through ten were all screenshots.
He'd placed orders online, including a crib, a stroller, a bottle sterilizer, a water warmer, three boxes of newborn diapers, four cotton swaddles, a box of changing pads, and a breast pump, all the most expensive ones from the brand's flagship store.
The shipping address was my new place.
How did he know my new address?
I kept scrolling.
Message eleven read, [I checked out your place. It is on the fifth floor without an elevator. You should not be climbing stairs while you are recovering from childbirth.]
Message twelve read, [I've got an apartment near the hospital, with three bedrooms and a living room, an elevator. It is on the seventeenth floor. You can move in there once you are discharged.]
Message thirteen read, [Or if you don't want to stay at my place, I checked out three nannies today. You can choose whichever you like.]
He sent me screenshots of three nanny resumes, with their certifications, work experience, and specialties all clearly listed.
He did all this at 2:30 a.m. in the morning.
Does that mean he stayed up all night after my surgery?
I kept scrolling.
Around message thirty, he texted, [I've been thinking about baby names. How about Elara Carter? It is a moonlit name for someone quietly luminous, grounded yet ethereal. If you don't like it, we can totally pick something else.]
Message forty-five read, [You should be the one to pick the baby name.]
Message fifty read, [But the baby's last name has to be Carter.]
Message fifty-five read, [That's non-negotiable.]
Message sixty read, [Let me know when you wake up.]
Message sixty-seven was sent at 5:48 a.m. this morning, and he texted, [I'm outside your room. When's your check-up?]
I pressed my phone to my chest. My heart was pounding. It was not anger, and it was not because I was moved. It was panic, pure and simple.
What freaked me out was that once Henry set his mind on something, he would follow through, no matter what.
He had been like that when he pursued me, and he had been just as decisive when we broke up.
Wait, no. I was the one who called it off. He did not agree, but he did not try to change my mind either.
He only asked, "Are you sure?" I said I was sure, and then he walked away.
Eight months passed with no calls, no texts, and complete silence.
I once thought he had moved on long ago, and perhaps he was even dating someone else.
That is why I was determined to do everything alone, from pregnancy to raising the child, because going back to him would have been humiliating. But I'm not sure now.
Two knocks sounded at the door.
"Sophie, time for your check-up," a voice called out. It wasn't the nurse's voice; it was Henry's.
"You're an anesthesiologist, what are you doing here for rounds?" I shot back.
There was a beat of silence outside.
Then the nurse's voice came through. "Ms. Lane, it is time for your check-up. And Chief Carter said he needs to check how you're recovering from the anesthesia. It's standard procedure."
Routine, my ass. Who ever heard of an anesthesiologist doing post-op rounds?
I pulled the blanket up to my chin. "Come in," I said.
The door opened. Henry walked in, wearing a white coat over light blue scrubs, his ID badge hanging from his chest. It read, [Anesthesiology Department, Chief Physician, Henry Carter.]
A young nurse trailed behind him, clipboard in hand.
Henry walked right up to the bed, placed his stethoscope on my chest as if it were the most natural gesture, and listened to my heartbeat.
I jerked my hand back. "You're an anesthesiologist, not a cardiologist."
"Old habit," he said, still holding on. He turned my hand over and looked at my palm. "You've got some swelling. How long's it been like this?"
"About two months."
"It's not in your prenatal records."
"Why are you checking my prenatal records?"
"I'm your doctor."
"You're my anesthesiologist. You only gave me a shot. Our only connection is that one injection."
He finally let go of my hand and turned to the nurse. "Note that the patient is recovering well post-op, but there's some mild swelling in her limbs. Recommend a kidney function test today."
Then he turned back to me. "How'd you sleep last night?" he asked.
"Not bad," I replied.
"Is your incision bothering you?"
"I can handle it."
"Hungry?"
"A little."
"What do you want to eat?"
This was starting to feel off.
I gave him a suspicious look. "What's with all the questions?"
"I am checking on your post-operative recovery," he said, totally unfazed. "It is standard procedure."
The nurse behind him nodded frantically.