Page 19 of Single Mom's Daddies
“With the otters?”
“Obviously.”
She gives a little grin and tucks her face back into the pillow. I reach into my bag and pull them out, still faintly damp from when I tried to dry them faster after forgetting them in the laundry.
I help her sit up. She winces, but doesn’t complain. She never does.
Ivy’s heart was born wrong. Three holes. One valve. A rhythm like a DJ drunk on the beat. She’s had two surgeries already, and there’s more to come. I don’t ask the doctors if she’s okay anymore. I ask if she’sstable. “Okay” doesn’t exist here.
While she pulls on her socks, I look around the room. The walls are yellow, like sunshine, but it still feels gray. There’s a paper sunflower taped to the window—last month’s craft project. Her nurse, Marcy, leaves a fresh juice box on the tray and squeezes my shoulder on her way out.
“Hold on,” Ivy says, voice small. She reaches for her stuffed elephant, tucks it under her arm, then leans back against me. “I missed you last night.”
“I had to work.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s okay.”
We sit like that a while, her heartbeat a faint flutter against my arm. She smells like soap and plastic, and I let my hand drift slowly over her braids, trying not to cry.
There’s a knock at the doorframe. Billing. She’s smiling—tight and polite and apologetic already. Her rolling computer station is pink. She looks like she hates this part of her job. “Ms. Chase? Do you have a moment?”
I nod, easing out from behind Ivy and pulling the blanket back over her. “I’ll be right back, baby. Don’t go anywhere.”
She rolls her eyes and yawns. “Where am I gonna go?”
I step into the hallway, and the billing admin gently closes the door behind us. We stand just outside Ivy’s room, where no one can hear what she’s about to say.
“I’m sorry to bring this up while your daughter’s still admitted,” she starts. “But I wanted to give you a heads-up before the system flags you again.”
I nod once, throat already tight.
“Your last three invoices haven’t cleared.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“I’m waiting on my tax refund,” I lie.
“I understand.”
I stare at the linoleum floor. “Is there a payment plan option? Or a deferment?”
“There’s only so much I can override,” she says gently. “I’ve been pushing your name to the back of the queue. But once the system alerts red, I can’t make it go away.”
“Just a little more time,” I say. “Please.”
“I’ll do my best. But you should know they’re preparing to shift your account to collections.”
“Already?”
She looks away. “I’m sorry.”
The shame hits harder than the fear. “I work,” I say, hating how defensive I sound. “I work two jobs. I’m trying.”
“I know you are.”
I nod again, numb.
