I turned toward him.
“No. I made an emotional decision when I signed those papers because I was terrified.”
The hallway went silent.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to say out loud.
“Do you even want him?”
Michael looked at me.
Finally, he answered.
“I don’t want this kind of life.”
Those words ended something inside me.
But it wasn’t my love for my son.
It was my marriage.
I went into the nursery.
The nurse placed my baby in my arms.
He was sleeping, his tiny face pressed against my chest.
I kissed his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Mommy came back.”
Three days later, I left the hospital with my son.
Michael didn’t come with us.
I moved in with my parents, and one month later, I filed for divorce.
The first year was difficult.
Appointments.
Therapy.
Sleepless nights.
Moments when I locked myself in the bathroom and cried because I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough.
