Page 65 of Single Mom's Daddies
The secondI step into the hospital room, I know.
There’s a shift that happens deep in my chest, like something cold and sharp inside me just melted and reformed into something heavier—something solid. Something I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
She’s asleep when we enter. Small, curled, pale. There are wires everywhere. Tubes. Machines. The steady beep of a monitor that echoes louder than it should. Her golden-brown hair is pulled back in a little ponytail that’s slightly crooked on her pillow. Her fingers twitch under the blanket like she’s dreaming about something fast.
There’s no air in this room.
I thought I might feel the way I did when I first saw Mila and Alex. I don’t. This is completely different. This is meeting my daughter who has been dancing with the Grim Reaper for years. My baby is under threat, and there’s nothing I can do.
Roman stands just behind me. Victor’s on my other side. Saffron walks in last and doesn’t speak. She moves like someone who’sdone this a thousand times—quiet, efficient, soft. She doesn’t look at Ivy. SheknowsIvy. Her focus is on us.
I step closer. It’s like walking underwater. I kneel beside the bed.
I knew she was ours when Saffron said the words in the den, but that was theory. This is fact. This is a child—a person—a girl with our blood and none of our baggage. A girl who’s been through more in eight years than most people endure in eighty.
I watch her breathe. Her chest rises and falls too gently. The blanket flutters at her collarbone.
I don’t speak. I don’t move. Can’t.
And then she stirs. Her eyelids flutter. Her lashes are long. She turns her head slightly. Blinks up at me. “Hi.”
Just that.
Like we’ve met before. Like I didn’t just fall headfirst into this moment with no preparation, no plan. My throat burns.
I smile. It stretches all the way through my chest. “Hi.”
Her smile is faint. She closes her eyes again, but it’s not sleep. It’s just rest. A moment. She’s waking up.
I’ve never been this aware of another person’s heartbeat before. Part of my brain is counting them. Cataloging them.
A nurse appears in the doorway. She checks a chart. Nods at Saffron. Leaves. Like this is all normal.
This should not be normal for any child.
It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. Ivy’s breath and the soft hum of machines fill the room like a lullaby no one wants to interrupt. Then Saffron speaks. “She wakes up slow. Give her a little time.”
The door opens again. This time it’s a doctor. Tall, thin, glasses that are slightly crooked. Saffron greets him quietly. Dr. Belleville, apparently. He nods to us. “Would you mind stepping into the hallway?”
My stomach drops. Roman moves first. Victor follows. I touch Ivy’s hand lightly—just two fingers on the back of hers—then stand.
She doesn’t stir.
We follow the doctor out. The hallway is clinical, sterile, and somehow colder than the room we just left. Dr. Belleville folds his hands in front of him. He eyes us without speaking.
Saffron says, “It’s okay. Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of them.” She introduces us as friends. Not fathers. Easier to explain, I guess.
He nods once. “I am sorry for this. But Ivy won’t be able to go home yet. She’s just too fragile. I know you wanted to get her home soon, but it’s not time.”
Saffron’s breath catches beside me.
“Her most recent bloodwork wasn’t what we hoped for,” he says.
Victor asks, “What do you mean?”
Dr. Belleville adjusts his glasses. “Transplants are based on a scoring system—urgency balanced with survivability. If a candidate is too fragile, too depleted, their ability to recover from the surgery becomes a factor. Ivy’s exhausted. Her organsare stressed. Her blood chemistry shows signs of chronic fatigue.”
“She needs a new heart,” I snap. “You just said she’s stable.”
