Chapter Ten
The moment they place her in my arms, the world stops.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Actually stops.
The nurses keep moving around me. Machines keep beeping. Someone is talking nearby. I know they are because I can see mouths moving, but I can't hear any of it because she's here.
My daughter is here.
A strange sound escapes me, half laugh, half sob.
“Oh my God.”
She's tiny. So tiny. Ten fingers, ten toes, a little button nose and dark hair plastered against her head.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
I don't even realize I'm crying until a tear lands on her blanket.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Hi, baby.”
Baby Girl Robinson.
That's what the little card attached to her bassinet says.
We never picked a name. Or maybe we did and just never agreed on one. I'd wanted to wait until I met her before deciding anyway. Somehow now that she's actually here, every name I've ever considered feels wrong. Not wrong exactly. Just... too small.
Nothing seems important enough for her.
I haven't taken my eyes off her since she was born.
Not once.
When they rushed her out of the delivery room, I'd panicked.
For one horrible second, I'd thought something was wrong.
Then I'd remembered the paperwork. The contract.
Laila's request that the baby be transferred immediately after birth.
The nurses already knew what to do. Apparently this happens often enough that nobody even questioned it.
That feels insane to me.
Nothing about today feels normal.
Every few minutes I check the hospital bracelet on her wrist. Then mine. Then hers again, just to make sure.
Because my switched-at-birth paranoia?
Yeah.
Turns out having an actual baby made that approximately a thousand times worse.
A nurse walked past ten minutes ago and I genuinely considered asking if hospitals had GPS trackers for newborns. The thought should embarrass me.
It doesn't.
This is my daughter.
Mine.
The realization hits me all over again and suddenly I'm crying harder than before. I laugh through the tears, then cry some more, then laugh again.
Motherhood is ostensibly humiliating.
The nursery door opens quietly behind me, but I don't notice. Not at first. I'm too busy staring at her tiny hand wrapped around my finger. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
Or maybe I'm just weak.
The first thing I notice is a hand settling gently against my back.
I tense automatically.
Then freeze.
Brad.
For the first time since I saw him outside Laila's apartment, I don't move away. I don't shrug him off. I don't tell him to leave.
I just sit there holding our daughter while his hand rests between my shoulders.
“Look at her,” I whisper.
My voice comes out awed.
Like I still can't believe she's real.
For a second he doesn't answer.
When I finally glance up, his eyes are fixed entirely on the baby.
And he's crying.
Not the guilty tears from the balcony. Not the desperate tears after being caught.
Real tears.
The kind that sneak up on you before you even realize they're falling.
“She's beautiful,” he whispers.
I nod immediately because beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it.
“She has your nose.”
I gasp so loudly a nurse looks over.
Holding up a hand in apology, I lower my voice. “I hope not.”
Brad laughs softly. “You’re beautiful.”
“Now,” I whisper.
I don't think of myself as vain. I don't mind the tiny bald spot near my hairline that refuses to fill in or the fact that my nails never seem to grow evenly no matter what vitamins I take. The one thing that always bothered me, though, was my nose.
My ugly, evil witch nose.
At least that's what I'd called it growing up.
I spent years staring at it in mirrors, turning my head sideways and wondering if everyone else noticed it too. Eventually I realized something obvious.
I could fix it.
So, I did.
Brad obviously didn't perform the surgery himself, but someone he trusted did.
It turned out perfect.
Most people don't even notice the difference. Sometimes I wonder if it was all in my head.
Looking down at my daughter, though, I suddenly understand why my parents always insisted it was.
Because she's perfect.
Perfect because when I look at her, I don't see imperfections. I don't see things I'd change.
I just see her.
And somehow that feels like the most important realization of my life.
“Can I hold her?” Brad asks quietly.
The question is almost a whisper. Like he’s expecting me to say no.
My eyes lift to his face. He's trying so hard not to hope. Trying so hard not to reach for her before I say yes.
I hate it.
Hate that we're in a position where he even has to hesitate. Hate that somewhere between twelve years of marriage and one terrible mistake, we've become two people carefully navigating each other instead of basking in the glow of being parents.
Slowly, reluctantly, I nod.
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate.
Carefully, like she's made of glass, he reaches for her. The second she’s out of my arms, I want her back. But, I can’t.
“I need to check on Laila anyway,” I mumble, mostly to convince myself.
The nurse told me she'd been moved to recovery almost an hour ago, but every time I'd thought about leaving, panic gripped my chest. What if someone took her? What if they mixed up the bassinets? What if another nurse carried her off somewhere and I lost sight of her?
I know it's irrational.
I know hospitals do this every day.
I know newborns don't get accidentally switched like some old television drama.
But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things.
So I'd stayed.
Watching. Memorizing every tiny detail of her face.
Before leaving, I turn back one last time.
Brad has taken a seat in the chair. The baby is cradled against his chest, impossibly small in his arms.
He's completely lost in her. Just staring. The same way I had been.
Feeling my eyes on him, his head lifts. Our gazes lock across the nursery.
For a second, we don’t react. Then I give him a small smile.
The relief on his face is immediate.
He returns it with an almost boyish sincerity that twists something painful in my chest.
Before I can think too hard about it, I turn and leave.
The walk to Laila's room feels longer than it should. I tell myself it's because the maternity ward is confusing.
I know it's because I'm nervous.
Hesitating beside her bed, I close my eyes for a second before pushing the curtain aside and peeking in.
“Hey.”
Laila startles.
She's sitting up in bed with a crumpled tissue clenched in one hand. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, her face pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
Immediately I feel like I've been punched in the gut.
All my talk of mistresses and revenge and winning, and somehow I'd never really stopped to consider this part.
This woman carried my child. She felt every kick. Every hiccup. Every sleepless night.
And now...
Now she'll never see her again.
“How are you feeling?” I ask softly, my voice sounding like I'm trying not to scare an injured animal.
“I'm okay,” she croaks. “The doctor said I can leave tomorrow. My mom's coming to pick me up.”
“Oh.”
The surprise must show on my face.
The last time she'd mentioned her mother, they weren't speaking.
“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “She... she's okay?”
I nod knowing who ‘she’ means. “She's perfect.”
Laila's eyes fill with tears at my answer.
“Do you...” I hesitate, licking my lips. “Do you want to see her?”
The shock on her face mirrors my own. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure why I offered.
Part of it is kindness. Part of it is guilt. And part of it is selfishness.
I'd rather end this chapter of my life completely than spend years wondering if I denied her something important.
Thankfully, she shakes her head. “No.”
I nod. Then, because it feels wrong not to say it, I quietly add, “Thank you.”
Laila looks horrified. “Don't thank me. Please.”
My eyes drop to the floor.
I suddenly have no idea what either of us is supposed to say. The baby is here. The contract is complete. The affair is over.
There should be closure in that. Instead, it just feels sad.
I'm turning to leave when her voice stops me.
“Bronwyn.”
I glance back. “Yes?”
She licks her lips.
Her eyes dart toward the curtain surrounding her bed, then to her hands. She starts shredding the tissue between her fingers.
I wait. Seconds pass. More pieces fall into her lap. Just when I'm about to tell her to get some rest, she finally speaks.
“He said he'd leave you.”
I freeze.
For a second I wonder if I heard her wrong. Then I see the tears spilling down her face.
“He told me he was only staying because of the baby,” she whispers. “He said once she was born...” Her voice breaks. “He said he'd leave.”
I stare at her as she starts sobbing again. “I really thought he loved me.”
“Stop.” The word comes out flat. Dead. “I heard you.”
She blinks at me.
“On the video call,” I continue. “I heard you threaten to find someone else if he wouldn't-”
I cut myself off. I don't care who started it. I don't care who manipulated who. I don't care which lie came first.
I'm never going to see this woman again. After tomorrow she'll disappear from my life forever.
So what does it matter?
“You know what?” I shake my head. “I don't care.”
Turning around, I head for the door, done feeling sorry for her.
“He told me you didn't like it.”
Freezing with one foot out of the curtain wall, I turn my head.
Laila is staring down at the blanket in her lap, twisting the material between her fingers.
“He told me he took you to a club and you didn't like it,” she says quietly. “Said you refused to try.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
She could've said anything and I'd have called her a liar. Anything.
That Brad promised her forever. That he loved her more. That he'd been planning to leave me from the moment they met.
I'd have dismissed all of it as the fantasy of a desperate woman trying to rewrite the story into something less pathetic.
But this? This makes no sense.
You don't tell someone you're supposedly being blackmailed into sleeping with, that you took your wife to a kink club years ago. That's not casual information.
It's the kind of detail that slips out when you're talking about your life.
When you're comfortable.
Truth is, Brad did take me to a club. I'd gone because he seemed excited. I'm not a prude, but my idea of romance isn't watching an orgy.
That's what we'd walked into.
I'd felt so humiliated. So out of place. So disgusted by the entire experience that I'd stormed out before we'd even been there an hour.
Brad had followed me immediately.
I remember sitting in the car afterward, mortified and convinced I'd ruined something important for him. He'd been understanding. Patient.
Until a few weeks later when he asked if I'd be willing to try again.
I'd said no. Of course I did.
And he'd smiled, squeezed my hand, and told me he understood.
Told me he'd cancel the membership.
And as far as I knew...
He had.
“I wasn't the first,” Laila whispers.
The words barely register. Then they do.
Everything after that goes numb. Not dramatic numbness. Not movie numbness.
Just a strange absence of feeling, like my brain suddenly decides it can't process anything else today.
I turn and leave. One foot in front of the other. Out the door. Down the hallway. Past nurses and visitors and crying newborns.
I don't stop until the hospital doors slide open and cold night air hits my face.
Only then do I realize I can't breathe.
My chest feels tight.
Too tight.
I stumble toward the nearest bench and practically collapse onto it.
“No,” I whisper. The word comes out shaky. “No.”
It can't be true. It can't.
Laila was a mistake. A horrible, devastating mistake, but still a mistake. Something I caught within months. Something that exploded so spectacularly there was no hiding it.
He can't have been doing this for years. He just can't.
Because if he'd been doing it for years, then what exactly have I been married to?
The thought makes my stomach lurch violently.
I bend forward, gripping the edge of the bench as bile burns the back of my throat.
I was still on the fence, still wondering if Laila was something I could forgive him for.
What am I supposed to do now?