“I know.”
“Then stay.”
He avoided my eyes.
“Maybe I need some time away to think. I can come back rested, and then we will deal with everything.”
“You want to leave your pregnant wife on bed rest so you can clear your mind?”
“I will call. I will check on you. It is not like I am disappearing.”
“Who will bring groceries? Who will cook? Who will drive me to the hospital if something happens?”
He shrugged.
“You always manage to figure things out.”
I stared at the man I had married.
“Please do not go.”
“I need this trip, Helen.”
Three days later, he left. Shortly after midnight, my water broke. By dawn, doctors were preparing me for an emergency delivery. I called Daniel from the hospital, but he did not answer, so I left a voicemail.
“My water broke. The babies are coming early. Please call me.”
He never called back.
Later, a nurse wheeled me into the neonatal intensive care unit. My three daughters lay inside separate incubators, tiny and surrounded by equipment. I took a photograph and sent it to Daniel. This time, he responded.
“Cute.”
One word. That was all their father had to say.
I stared at the message until Nurse Sarah gently took the phone from my hand and placed it facedown on the blanket. For the next three months, the NICU became my entire world. I learned the sound of each daughter’s cry, filled out insurance forms alone, pumped milk in hospital bathrooms, and slept in chairs that were never designed for sleeping.
Daniel occasionally replied to my messages, but his answers were always brief.
“How are they?”
“You okay?”
“Busy right now.”
One evening, I asked whether he had told anyone aboard the ship that his daughters had been born. The typing symbol appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
“Do not start, Helen.”
