“How did they call you?” I asked, unable to piece it together.
James swallowed hard. “They didn’t at first.”
Just then, a nurse walked out of the room holding a clipboard against her chest. She looked between us. “Are you his wife?”
“I am.”
The nurse nodded gently. “Ma’am, I think this may help.” She turned to James. “When she was fading, we asked if there was anyone we could call. She wasn’t fully conscious, but she kept repeating one name—his.”
James looked down at the floor.
“Over and over,” the nurse continued. “Nothing else.”
Eleven years had passed. She had built her own life, suffered abandonment within it, and at the absolute edge of existence, the only name her mind could reach for was a boy she had trusted half a lifetime ago.
My first instinct should have been jealousy. It wasn’t. Instead, I felt a wave of profound terror—the thought of a woman dying alone, a newborn left behind with no mother, no partner, and no family, clinging to a single old name in the fog.
“How did they find him?” I asked.
The nurse answered, “She managed to give enough of his last name before losing consciousness. Social services searched her records and found an old emergency contact entry buried in past paperwork with his full name.”
James nodded. “They called me about an hour ago.”
“You came immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her?”
He shook his head. “She was already gone.”
That sentence flattened everything. From inside the room, the baby made a tiny sound, and all three of us turned. The nurse’s expression softened. “She’s doing well.”
I looked back at James. He looked terrified—not of the hospital, but of me. That was when I realized whatever he was about to ask had nothing to do with old ghosts. Anna was gone. This was about the child.
James took a breath. “She has no one. Her father’s not coming; social services reached him, and he signed a waiver stating he wants no involvement.”
My mouth went dry. “Already?”
“He left months ago.” James looked toward the glass. “The hospital social worker explained the next steps—temporary placement while they search for other relatives, though they don’t think any exist.”
I knew what was coming, but hearing it out loud felt monumental.
“I want us to ask to be considered,” James said.
I stared at him. “For what?”
He looked me in the eye. “For her.”
My eyes immediately welled up. “James—”
“I know,” his voice broke. “I know how this sounds.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I probably do. I already told the social worker I’m married, that I would never make a decision without you, and that this isn’t something I can promise on my own.”
