Eight years. Eight trips to the operating room. Eight children ripped away from me. The memory of that pain pulled me back to the present.
I looked up at him.
"Darrell, for the surgery in three days, I want a different doctor."
He froze. Then he shot upright on the edge of the hospital bed, his voice climbing several notches.
"Beverly, what's that supposed to mean? You're saying you don't trust me? I'm the baby's father. If you can't even trust me at a time like this, who can you trust?"
He was getting anxious. Just like that, he was still the same boy who'd knelt before me eight years ago, begging me for a million-dollar investment to save his company.
"It's not that I don't trust you."
My voice came out soft, almost weightless.
"Darrell, you haven't slept well a single night since I got pregnant. I just don't want you running yourself into the ground."
My words smoothed the crease between his brows.
"I'm sorry, Beverly. I was overthinking it. You're right. We'll switch doctors."
"I'll arrange the best OB-GYN for you, second only to myself. Don't worry. Our baby is going to be born safe and sound."
A shrill ringtone shattered the quiet of the hospital room.