It was Zachary Collins, the man who had once been my husband and who now stood at the foot of my hospital bed staring at my swollen belly and my medical chart.
For a moment neither of us spoke, yet the truth hung heavy in the air between us.
“Madeline, what are you doing here,” he asked quietly, his voice rough with disbelief.
I turned my face slightly and whispered, “Please put your mask back on,” because I did not have the strength to face his full expression while lying exposed and vulnerable.
He pulled the mask up again, yet his eyes never left mine as the nurse asked, “Doctor, should we proceed,” and he answered after a brief pause, “Yes, follow the procedure.”
Another contraction tore through me, and as I cried out I thought to myself that perhaps I deserved this confusion because I had hidden the truth from him. Then his voice softened in a way I had not heard for years, and he said, “Madeline, listen to me and do not tense up, I am here.”
Those words pierced something deep inside me, because I could not remember the last time he had chosen to stand beside me without hesitation.