We were still in the postpartum room at Riverside Medical Center in Kansas City. The lights were low, the bassinet sat beside my hospital bed, and my mom had just taken a few photos of me smiling despite complete exhaustion. The nurse had stepped out for a moment. Then everything suddenly stopped.
Our daughter Lily was only three hours old. Tiny, pink, wrinkled, and perfect, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Jason held her stiffly, his hands trembling as if she weighed far more than she did.
I stared at him.
“Jason, what are you talking about?”
His eyes searched my face like he expected to see guilt written there.
“Look at you,” he snapped. “You’re smiling. You betrayed me. That’s why you’re smiling like that. Because you know she isn’t mine.”
The room turned heavy with silence. My mother opened her mouth but said nothing. My sister looked at Jason as if she no longer recognized him. Even the baby made a small uncertain sound.
A short, nervous laugh escaped me.
“You’re joking.”
He didn’t laugh.
Instead he stepped back from the bed, still holding Lily, raising her slightly like evidence in a courtroom.
“I’m not raising another man’s baby,” he declared loudly.
My stomach dropped.