Chapter 2: Night Shifts and Old Wounds

The reason I didn't want to be hospitalized was because there was no one to help me take care of the baby.

After completing the admission, I had no choice but to go home, pack, and bring the baby back to the hospital.

It was raining when I left my apartment, juggling Mason in his car seat and a diaper bag the size of a carry-on. The hospital parking lot was nearly empty at midnight, and I hustled through the glass doors, wishing desperately for a friend or even a nosy neighbor to lend a hand.

In the middle of the night, Mason cried for milk. The bottled water in the room had run out and hadn’t been replaced, so I had to take the baby and knock on Dr. Mark Lewis’s on-call room door.

He opened the door, dark circles under his eyes, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"What is it?"

I stood at the door, holding my child in one arm and a bottle in the other. "Dr. Lewis, do you have any water? I need to make some formula."

The baby kept crying, and no matter how I tried to soothe him, he wouldn’t stop. Mark scratched his head irritably and grumbled, "Bring your son in here now."

I hurried in, afraid that if I was a second late, he’d throw both me and my son out.

Once inside, he gritted his teeth and took the bottle from my hand. "Rachel Carter, you really know how to torment me."

"It’s been five years since we broke up and you still haven’t changed. You get admitted and don’t leave the kid with his dad. Is he gone or what?"

I pouted, not sure where his temper was coming from. "His dad can’t take care of him."

His tone was calm, but his eyes were anything but friendly. "Why?"

"Just like you said—he really is gone."

…

As I spoke, I couldn’t help but start crying. It wasn’t because the baby’s father was dead, but because I’d been staying up late taking care of the baby alone, feeling anxious and exhausted, with way too much psychological pressure.

I tried to hold it together, but the tears just kept coming. It was the kind of ugly crying that made my nose run and my eyes swell. I didn’t care. The isolation, the judgment, the aching loneliness—suddenly it was all spilling out in the worst possible place.

Maybe I was crying too hard, but a crack appeared in his ever-icy expression.

I remembered the first time I’d cried in front of Mark—over a college rejection letter. Back then, he’d pulled me close. Now, he just looked tired.

"I’m sorry for your loss, I…"

He didn’t finish, and I interrupted him while wiping my tears. "I know, I deserve it. After leaving you, my life hasn’t been good at all. Are you satisfied now?"