Before dinner.
I remember standing by the window afterward, watching his car disappear down the street.
One hand rested on the glass.
The other remained over my stomach.
For the first time, I understood that my daughter and I were truly on our own.
Or at least I thought we were.
Part 2 — Chloe Arrived Too Soon
The weeks after Eric left became a blur of fear.
Doctor appointments.
Unpaid bills.
Phone calls from companies asking when I planned to make payments.
Nights when I lay awake calculating expenses in my head until sunrise.
My blood pressure climbed steadily.
I kept telling myself I could handle it.
I had to.
There was no one else.
Then, at thirty-four weeks, I went to what I expected would be another routine appointment.
My doctor checked my blood pressure twice.
Then she stopped smiling.
She stepped into the hallway and called for assistance.
Everything happened after that with terrifying speed.
People were asking questions.
Someone was adjusting monitors.
Another nurse was helping me change clothes.
A doctor explained that waiting was becoming dangerous.
Before I had fully processed what they were saying, I was being prepared for an emergency C-section.
Chloe entered the world six weeks early.
She was unbelievably small.
Fragile.
Furious.
And absolutely perfect.
The first time I saw her surrounded by NICU equipment, I cried so hard I could barely breathe.
There were wires attached to her tiny body. Machines blinked beside her. Nurses spoke calmly about oxygen levels, feeding, weight, and monitoring.
I wanted to scoop her up and run somewhere safe.
