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“Michael Carter?”
I turned.
A doctor stood in front of me, mask pulled down, eyes tired.
“I’m Dr. Alvarez,” she said. “Your wife is in surgery. We had to move quickly. There was significant bleeding.”
“Is she—” My voice cracked. “Is she okay?”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“And the baby?”
A beat.
Then: “We’re working on that too.”
Time stretched.
Minutes felt like hours.
I sat. I stood. I paced.
And then my phone buzzed again.
Not my mother this time.
Dr. Melissa Crane.
I answered immediately.
“This is Michael Carter.”
“Michael,” a calm but urgent voice said. “I’ve been trying to reach Sarah. Is she with you?”
“She’s in surgery,” I said. “Emergency C-section.”
A sharp inhale on the other end.
“I was afraid of that.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “She had test results. My mother took them.”
Another pause.
Then: “Those results showed a complication. A serious one.”
My chest tightened again.
“What kind?”
“Placental instability,” she said. “High risk of abruption. We flagged it as urgent. I told Sarah she needed to be monitored closely. If she experienced pain or fluid leakage, she was to call 911 immediately.”
I closed my eyes.
“She did,” I whispered. “My mother told her not to.”