I looked down at him.
He slept through all of it.
He had no idea that his first hour of life had reopened a family wound older than he was.
“Why did you recognize him so fast?” I asked.
Dr.
Wright smiled sadly.
“Because when Ethan was born, I spent the first night staring at him.
He had that same expression when he slept.
The same little crease between his eyebrows.”
He stopped speaking for a moment.
“I thought I’d forgotten.
Apparently I hadn’t.”
Then the doctor did something I did not expect.
He put his phone on the bedside table and slid it toward me.
“You decide what happens next.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“I have Ethan’s number.
He doesn’t answer me often, but sometimes he does.
I can call him.
Or I can leave this room and never interfere again.
You have just given birth.
This is your child.
You do not owe my family access to him simply because I recognized his face.”
For months, every decision had been forced on me.
Ethan left, so I moved.
Rent increased, so I worked more.
Labor began, so I came to the hospital alone.
Now, for the first time in a long while, someone was giving the choice back to me.
I stared at the phone.
Part of me wanted Ethan nowhere near us.
Another part wanted him to hear exactly what his silence had cost.
“Call him,” I said.
Dr.
Wright studied my face.
“Are you sure?”
“Call him.”
He picked up the phone.
The first call went unanswered.
So did the second.
On the third, someone picked up.
Dr.
Wright immediately put the phone on speaker and set it on the table.
“What?” Ethan’s voice said.
My entire body went rigid.
Seven months.
Seven months since I had heard that voice in the same room as mine.
Dr.
Wright looked at me.
I gave one small nod.
“Ethan,” he said, “where are you?”
A pause.
“Why do you care?”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m in Columbus.
What’s this about?”
