His mouth opened, but another contraction took me under.
When Asher finally came, he made one angry little sound, and I reached for him before anyone told me I could.
“My baby,” I whispered.
Then the room changed.
Dr. Lawson said my name over and over again.
A nurse pressed warm blankets over my chest. I heard “bleeding,” “medication,” and “now.”
Marcus finally looked at my face instead of the monitor.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
“We’re taking care of her,” Dr. Lawson said.
“Peyton, stay with me.”
I tried.
Later, Marcus told me the hospital pharmacy charge came to $300 after insurance. Our plan covered most of the delivery, but that medication still left an out-of-pocket balance on the discharge paperwork.
No one waited for payment while I was bleeding. Dr.
Lawson ordered what I needed because I needed it.
Marcus paid the balance with his card because his wallet was closer than mine.
For one soft, foolish second, I thought this was my husband. This was who he was when it mattered.
I was wrong.
Discharge day smelled like sanitizer and sour coffee.
Asher slept in the bassinet beside my bed. My hands shook when I buttoned his sleeper.
Marcus sat near the window with his laptop open.
“Please tell me you’re not working,” I said.
“Just organizing expenses.”
I closed my eyes.
“Marcus.”
“What? We have a baby now. We need to be responsible, Peyton.”
I almost laughed.
I had stitches, mesh underwear, a bruised arm from an IV, and a newborn who needed me every two hours. Responsibility wasn’t new to me.
Marcus cleared his throat.
“Peyton, there’s one thing, though.”
He slid a folded receipt across the blanket.
It landed beside Asher’s tiny hand.
I picked it up with two fingers and moved it to the tray table. I didn’t want it touching my son.
Marcus frowned.
“Don’t make a face.”
I unfolded it.
It was the $300 balance for the medication Dr. Lawson ordered when my body was in trouble.
“This one’s on you, Pey,” Marcus said quietly. “It was your body.
I’m not splitting a bill that had nothing to do with me.”
The room went thin and cold.
I looked at Asher. Three days old, one fist tucked under his chin.
“Say his name,” I said.
Marcus blinked. “What?”
“Say our son’s name.
Then tell me my body had nothing to do with you.”
His jaw tightened. “Peyton, don’t twist this.”
“I’m lying in the hospital where I almost died making you a father, Marcus.”
“We are not arguing in a hospital.”
