My Husband Asked For A Hall Pass On My Delivery Date Chapter 07
Vacant
I looked up at him.
My eyes were calm. Not a ripple.
The baby had been taken away five hours ago.
Hospital rules. They said he couldn’t stay in the room past a certain time.
I couldn’t do anything. I just watched them peel him out of my arms.
“Where’s our baby?” Ethan asked.
His eyes searched the room, looking for the bassinet.
I didn’t answer his question.
I just looked at his face. Tired. Still handsome. And said, clearly, one word at a time:
“Ethan. I want a divorce.”
He froze. Like the words didn’t form a sentence.
Then a small, helpless smile appeared on his face. The kind reserved for a wife throwing a tantrum.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” He stepped forward, reaching for me. “I know I messed up this time. I promise, I’ll never leave you again.”
His hand was about to touch my shoulder when his phone rang.
Loud. Sharp. Cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
Ethan glanced at the screen. Picked up without hesitation.
Sienna. Again.
I couldn’t hear what she said. I could only see his brow furrow, his voice going soft and patient.
“You left your jacket at the Airbnb? Don’t worry about it. I’ll go grab it for you.”
He hung up. Turned back to me. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, like he was calculating how to phrase the next sentence.
I didn’t give him the chance.
“Go,” I said.
Whatever excuse he’d prepared died in his throat.
He blinked. Then he smiled, almost grateful, and called me understanding. Added something about how Sienna couldn’t get it herself, how he’d be quick, how he’d be right back.
Then he left.
His footsteps faded down the hallway. The room returned to silence.
Good.
I’d already decided I didn’t want him anymore.
…
By the time Ethan made it back to the hospital, the hallway lights were half-dimmed.
He was holding a woman’s jacket. The one from the Airbnb. His face showed the weariness of a man who’d been running back and forth all night.
He pushed the door open, probably expecting to find me lying in bed, waiting for his explanation.
Instead, he found sheets pulled tight. Pillow empty. Bed made.
On the nightstand, a divorce agreement.
He stood in the doorway, frozen.
His first thought was probably that I’d gone to the NICU in a fit of anger.
He picked up the agreement. Flipped it open.
On the last page, my signature. Clear. Final.
Every line of the asset division filled out. I hadn’t taken anything more than half of our marital assets.
His hands started shaking. He dialed my number.
The voice on the other end: “The number you have dialed is not available. Please dial again later.”
“What the hell is all that noise! It’s the middle of the night! Let people sleep!” The husband from the next bed stormed out, face twisted with fury, and unloaded on Ethan without warning. “Your wife gives birth and you’re not here. She signed everything alone! The baby’s dying and your phone’s off. She paid the bills alone. She signed critical condition notices again and again!”
He shouted in a low voice. “Where the fuck were you all the time? The baby’s gone and now you show up? What good are you now!”
With every sentence, another shade of color drained from Ethan’s face.
He grabbed the man’s arm. His voice shook. “What are you saying? The baby, what happened to the baby?”
The woman appeared behind her husband. She looked at Ethan the way you look at a man already convicted.
One word at a time, she delivered the verdict he’d missed.
“The baby didn’t make it. He died without ever seeing his father’s face.”
Ethan was still shaking his head. Still asking. “What happened to the baby?”
Her voice rose. Sharp. Final.
“Your son is dead.”
Ethan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
A statue in the doorway, holding a woman’s jacket in one hand and a divorce agreement in the other.