I had already lost four pregnancies before that night. By the time I was pregnant again, I kept my hopes guarded. I didn’t plan, dream, or celebrate. I was afraid that wanting too much would invite another loss.
When my son was born, he cried once—soft, but alive. I thought we had finally made it. Then the room went quiet. Fifteen minutes later, he was gone.
I was numb, barely able to move, when my husband stepped beside my bed. His face was cold.
“You’re bad luck,” he said.
Then he walked out and never came back.
I lay there alone, hollowed out by grief, until a woman in the nearby bed spoke up. She asked the nurse if I could hold her newborn for a moment. I didn’t know her, but she saw my pain. When they placed the warm, breathing baby in my arms, I finally broke down. That small act of kindness kept me from falling apart completely.
Years later, I ran into her at a grocery store. She remembered me—and told me something I’d never known. That night in the hospital, she had confronted my husband in the hallway, telling him there was no excuse for abandoning a woman who had just lost her child.
A few days after that, he called to apologize. Now I knew why.
I never went back to him. But knowing someone had stood up for me when I couldn’t still matters. Even now.