Chapter 2
Zachary waited at the operating room door when I came out.
"My son!" His eyes lit up. "He looks just like me. Check that nose and lips!"
He scooped up the baby, grinning.
He never glanced at me.
"Zachary," my mom said, "She just had surgery. Go sit with her."
"Mom, stay with her. I need to tell my folks the good news," Zachary said without looking at me.
He spoke, then left with the baby, leaving me behind like I was invisible.
I lay on the hospital bed with my belly incision throbbing.
The pain worsened as the anesthesia faded.
The nurse said she needed to press my stomach to check my uterus.
I was shaking, sweat dripping from the pain.
Only my mom was with me in the room.
"Where is Zachary?" I asked.
"He went out to pick someone up," my mom said awkwardly.
"Who?" I pressed.
"His parents just arrived," she said.
His parents are here.
Alright then.
That night, Zachary's mom arrived.
She went straight to the baby, then turned to me.
"That must have been tough," she said.
That's it.
She fussed over the baby, took photos, posted on social media, and made calls.
'Where's Zachary?' I wondered.
"He had a work emergency and had to return to the office," my mom said.
He left the hospital after my C-section.
My mom was keeping me company.
The next three days...
He'd visit briefly, never over an hour.
"Work's intense. We're chasing year-end goals, and I can't leave," he'd say.
"My mom's here, so don't worry
"Once you're out of the hospital, I'll take time off to be there for you."
I believed it all.
He still didn't take time off after I was discharged.
My mom and his mom took me home.
After I got home, he texted, [Thanks, honey. I'll try to come back early tonight.]
He didn't get home until 11 p.m.
I had already fallen asleep.
The baby cried thrice that night.
I had to lift myself up every time to feed him.
Zachary lay still beside me, unconscious.
The stitches were still in, and bending over hurt so much I was sweating.
My mom was returning home the next day.
She had no vacation days left and would be fired if she didn't return.
She held my hand, tears in her eyes, before she left.
"If it's too much, come home," she comforted.
"I'm fine, Mom," I replied.
I didn't cry when she left.
Zachary's mom said she was going home too.
"My back is killing me," she sighed, pressing a hand to her lower back. "Zachary's office is close by, so he can manage things here."
The first night she left, I was alone at home.
Zachary worked until midnight.
I was feeding the crying baby and felt like breaking down too.
But I kept it together.
Crying wouldn't help, would it?
No one cared for me the month after birth, so I cared for myself.
When the baby cried, I'd feed him. If hungry, I'd eat leftover confinement meals. When tired, I'd nap when the baby slept.
Zachary came home late every day.
He could arrive anytime between ten and midnight.
"Work's crazy; it's year-end," he'd say.
I heard that line for eighteen days straight.
18 days.
I never asked what kept him busy.
I never questioned why he never took any time off.
I truly believed he was busy.
As a mid-level manager chasing year-end targets, he had many meetings and dinners.
Until today.
"Sophia's in the hospital. I need to check on her," Zachary said.
He said it like he was just going to buy groceries.
I suddenly realized something.
When our baby was born, he took no days off.
He worked every day for eighteen days.
His ex-wife is now in the hospital.
And just like that, he takes off.