There was no bracelet for Ben. They’d offered him one at check-in, and he’d said, “I’ll get it after she’s born.” He never came back to get it.
I held onto the sink and cried with no sound coming out. I didn’t want to wake Evelyn.
Then I washed my face, and I went back to bed, and I picked up my daughter, and I told myself: not in front of her. You don’t fall apart in front of her.
They discharged us on Saturday morning.
A nurse wheeled me out to the curb in a wheelchair with Evelyn in my arms, the way they always do. I’d imagined this moment so many times. I’d imagined Ben pulling up to the entrance in his car with the brand new car seat installed in the back, and him jumping out to help me, and the two of us buckling her in together with shaking hands.
