Chapter 2
The doctor's voice grew faint, as if I were hearing it underwater.
Someone was shouting, "Prepare the blood!" Another called out, "We need a family member to sign!" Then someone handed me a form. "Are you able to sign?"
I took the pen, my hand trembling so much I could barely hold it, but I managed to scrawl my name, barely legible.
The moment I finished the last stroke, everything faded to black.
When I woke up, the hospital room was dead quiet.
It was pitch black outside. I couldn't even tell what day or night it was.
On the nightstand sat a glass of water and a note from the nurse: "Your baby is in the Cradle Ward, healthy and safe."
I fumbled for my phone, and the screen lit up.
Thirty-seven unread messages, forty-two missed calls.
All from coworkers and some friends.
In my message thread with Sebastian, the last thing there was still my message: [I'm giving birth.]
No reply.
It was 3:17 AM.
I called the number I'd memorized long ago.
The phone rang and rang, so long I thought he'd never answer. But then, out of nowhere, he picked up.
No one said anything on the other end.
Just as I was about to speak, a woman's voice came through the phone—soft, lazy, like she'd just woken up.
"Sebastian, stop it. Be gentle..."
I heard sheets rustling, like someone was moving around on the bed.
The call ended.
I stared at the screen, the words "Call Ended" lingering there. I just stared for a long, long time.
Then I put my phone down, took my daughter in my arms—the nurse had just brought her over—and gently kissed her forehead.
"Baby," I said, "let's go home with Mommy."
The day I left the hospital, the sun was shining bright.
I handled the discharge paperwork by myself, then carried my baby out and hailed a cab home.
My mom had come all the way from our hometown and was waiting for me in our little apartment. As soon as I walked in, she took the baby from my arms, her eyes red with tears.
"Serena, why do you have to put yourself through all this?" she said.
I didn't say anything.
My mom took care of me during my recovery.
She made me broth every day, changed the baby's diapers, and every now and then, she'd grumble about "that heartless Foster family." But whenever I changed the subject, she'd drop it.
Sebastian never bothered to show up.
Not one text, not one call.
Meanwhile, his first love's posts kept getting shared in our group chats by mutual friends.
Rosalind posted a picture of her and Sebastian from behind, with the words: "After everything, I'm glad it's you."
I swiped past it and kept feeding my baby.
On the day my baby turned one month old, I dressed her in the tiny red jacket my mom had sewn herself, took a picture, and posted it to my social media.
I wrote: "Happy one-month, my baby girl."
Once I posted it, I switched my phone to silent.
At seven that evening, Sebastian kicked open the door to my apartment.
He stood in the doorway, suit rumpled, tie askew, his eyes bloodshot like he hadn't slept in days.
He stared at the baby in my arms, his voice so rough it barely sounded human.
"Serena, where are you taking my daughter?" he shouted.
I looked at him, and suddenly, he seemed like a complete stranger.
I'd known him for seven years, loved him for five, and waited for him through my entire pregnancy.
But now, with him standing right in front of me, I honestly couldn't remember what I ever saw in him.
"Mr. Foster," I said, my voice steady. "Is there something you need?"
He flinched, like my words had hit him hard, and took a step forward. "What was that post you put up? What do you mean by 'one month'? This baby—"
"She's yours," I said. "Born on October 23rd, C-section, massive hemorrhage. You were busy picking up your first love, so you didn't reply to my message."
His face went ghostly pale.
"Serenie..." Sebastian murmured.
"Don't call me that," I cut him off. "Just call me Serena."
He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but the words just wouldn't come.
Just then, firecrackers exploded downstairs, loud and sharp.
Sebastian spun around to look out the window.
Down below, a row of black wedding cars was parked, the lead car covered in red roses.
"Who's getting married?" Sebastian asked, his voice tight.
I glanced down, gently straightened my baby's little red jacket, then looked up, smiling at him.
"Me," I replied.
His expression looked like he'd just been slapped across the face.
"Serena, are you crazy? Who are you marrying with my daughter in tow?" Sebastian shouted.
"Mr. Foster," I said, stepping around him toward the door. "Move aside. Don't ruin my big day."
He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush my bones. "Serena, you wouldn't dare!"
I looked down at his hand—the same hand I'd held so many times before.
"Sebastian," I said, "do you know which hospital I gave birth in? Do you know my daughter's name? Do you know how much she weighed when she was born?"
He stood there, stunned.
I peeled his fingers off my wrist, one by one.