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Later, after the baby had been taken for additional examinations, Michael finally sat beside my hospital bed.
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His face looked completely different.
“We need to think about our future,” he said.
“Our future?”
He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“We’re only twenty-four. We know nothing about raising a child with special needs.”
I immediately started crying.
“He’s still our son.”
“I know.”
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“No. You don’t.”
Michael looked toward the door.
Then he began listing everything that could go wrong.
Medical appointments.
Therapy.
Money.
School.
People judging us.
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The possibility that our lives would never look the way we had planned.
After nearly seventeen hours of labor, I was completely exhausted, and every frightening thing he said seemed heavier than the last.
By sunrise, I barely recognized myself.
Then a hospital social worker entered the room.