The sterile, antiseptic smell of the private suite at Manhattan’s Presbyterian Hospital was supposed to be a memory by now. I, Amelia Sinclair, had been counting down the hours.
For seventy-two hours, I’d existed in a bubble of fatigue, overwhelming love, and a deep, bone-aching soreness that nobody truly prepares you for. In my arms, swaddled in a cashmere blanket my mother had brought, was the reason for it all.
Liam, my son—our son. His tiny face was peaceful in a way that made my heart clench. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was four-fifteen p.m. Discharge paperwork should have been here by now.
Tristan, my husband, was pacing near the window, his phone pressed to his ear. He wasn’t wearing the sweats he’d promised he’d wear for the drive home. Instead, he was in a crisp, buttoned-down shirt, the kind he reserved for important client dinners.
“I understand,” he was saying into the phone, his voice a low, practiced murmur. “Yes, of course. We appreciate you holding it. We’ll be there by seven.”
He paused, listening. “Thank you, Jean-Pierre.”
He ended the call and turned to me, a brilliant, excited smile on his face. It was the smile that had charmed me across a crowded charity gala two years ago. Right now, it felt misplaced.
“That was the maitre d’ at Le Bernardin,” Tristan said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Just confirming our reservation. He heard we had the baby and sent his congratulations.”
I shifted Liam carefully. “Tristan, the doctor still hasn’t come by. We need to get Liam home.”
“I know, I know,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “But can you believe it? We waited three months for this reservation. Three months. And Jean-Pierre himself is holding our table.”
A cold trickle of dread started in my chest. “My parents are already on their way into the city. They’re so excited.”
“Your parents?” I asked. “I thought the plan was for you to drive us home, together. Our first night as a family.”
“My mom had a whole meal being sent over from Daniel,” Tristan continued, ignoring my question. His smile tightened at the edges. “Amelia, be reasonable. That’s just reheated food. This is Le Bernardin. This is an experience.”
“My parents have been looking forward to this for months.”
“Your parents have?” I felt my voice rise, and Liam stirred in his sleep. I lowered it to a harsh whisper. “Tristan, I just pushed a human being out of my body. I haven’t slept for more than two hours straight in three days. I want to go home. To our bed.”
“With our son,” he added, walking over and perching on the edge of my bed. He put a hand on my leg. It felt heavy, not comforting.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re tired. But look, you and Liam are perfectly safe here. The hospital is the safest place you could be. I’ll get you both settled in a car service. The best one.”
He continued, oblivious to my expression. “And I’ll be home right after dinner. We’ll celebrate properly then.”
“A car service?” I stared at him, disbelief washing over me. “You’re going to have me and our three-day-old son take a taxi home while you take my car to a fancy dinner with your parents?”
The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp. Tristan’s face hardened. The charming mask slipped, just for a second, and I saw the impatient man beneath.
“For God’s sake, Amelia. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s one dinner. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s my car, too, you know. Or have you forgotten that we’re married?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I said, my voice trembling. “I haven’t forgotten that you promised. I haven’t forgotten that this is supposed to be about us becoming a family.”
“This is about family!” he shot back, standing up. “My parents are family too. They want to celebrate their grandson. And I want one night to feel normal again. To not be surrounded by hospital smells and talk of diaper changes. Is that too much to ask? After everything I’ve given up for this?”
The phrase hit me like a physical blow. “Given up? What have you given up, Tristan?”
“Plenty,” he said, his voice rising now. “My freedom. My social life. I’ve had to work twice as hard to prove I’m not just Amelia Sinclair’s husband. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To have everyone assume your success is handed to you?”