She lifted her chin.
“You said she was pregnant.”
“I didn’t say how far along.”
Vivian’s composure finally broke.
Only for a second.
Then she turned toward the elevator.
I caught her arm—not hard, but firmly enough to stop her.
“Tell me the truth.”
She looked at my hand until I released her.
“The truth,” she said, “is that some doors should remain closed.”
She walked away.
I followed Hannah to the NICU ten minutes later.
She sat between the incubators, wrapped in a hospital blanket. Tears ran silently down her face as she looked from one baby to the other.
I stayed at a distance.
The girl’s card had been updated.
LILY PARKER.
The boy’s card now read:
NOAH PARKER.
Hannah had chosen names.
Lily opened one tiny hand, fingers uncurling against the blanket.
Hannah placed her fingertip through the incubator opening.
The baby’s hand closed around it.
Something inside me broke quietly.
“She likes music,” Hannah said without looking at me.
I moved closer.
“How do you know?”
“She kicked whenever music played. Noah kicked when I stopped eating.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“So he’s demanding.”
“He’s practical.”
The smile faded from her face.
I stood on the other side of the incubator.
“My mother knew you were pregnant.”
Hannah’s hand went still.
“She knew something.”
“She came to see you after we ended.”
Hannah looked at Noah.
“You should leave this alone.”
“I left it alone for five years.”
“And people survived.”
“Did they?”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don’t get to come back and decide my survival wasn’t good enough.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
I lowered my voice.
“What happened?”
Hannah closed her eyes briefly.
“When I went to your mother, I thought I could prove she had lied. I had copies of emails, dates, receipts. I thought if she saw how easily everything could be traced, she would admit it.”
“She didn’t.”
“No.”
“What did she do?”
“She offered me money.”
My stomach turned.
“How much?”
“Enough to disappear.”
“And you refused.”
“You still sound surprised.”
“I’m ashamed that I ever believed you would take it.”
She looked at me then.
“The money wasn’t for leaving you.”
“What was it for?”
Before she could answer, an alarm sounded from Noah’s incubator.
Maya appeared instantly, followed by two nurses.
“His oxygen is dropping.”
Hannah tried to stand.
Pain folded her forward.
I caught her before she fell.
“Let me go.”
“You’ll tear your incision.”
“That’s my son.”
“And they need room to help him.”
Maya adjusted the breathing tube while a nurse checked the monitor.
“Come on, Noah,” Hannah whispered.
Her entire body shook.
I kept one arm around her, not because I believed she wanted comfort from me, but because she could not remain upright alone.
After several tense moments, Noah’s oxygen level began to rise.
“He’s stabilizing,” Maya said. “The tube shifted slightly. We corrected it.”
Hannah sagged with relief.
I helped her back into the wheelchair and stepped away immediately.
She wiped her face.