Then he had just . . . disappeared.
Abandoned us.
But Dane was the least of my worries right then.
“The arrangements have been finalized for his transfer, and the heart team will be ready to perform his surgery as soon as he arrives. Transport is scheduled for three this afternoon.”
I nodded again, clutching myself tighter.
“You can go in and see him now, and I will send someone to come to draw your blood while they prep him for transfer.”
The only thing I could process was that I could see him. I could finally see him.
“Thank you.” The words left me on a gush of air.
Kindly, he patted my knee. “I know things look bleak right now, and I know you’re scared, but don’t stop praying. I’ve seen a lot of miracles in my lifetime.”
Gratefulness pulsed through my being, thankful this doctor had taken the time to step outside of his duty and offer me kind words when it felt as if the world only had cruelty to offer.
“I won’t,” I promised, though I was terrified it might be a lie.
When he stood, I followed, my knees weak and my body swaying.
I followed him out and down a long hall and then another before I was cleared through a set of imposing double doors.
I was taken to a preparation area and instructed on how to wash, before I was led into a darkened room. The large area was only illuminated by dim, unobtrusive lights, sections curtained off, concealing the isolettes behind each.
Some of the curtains were opened where I could see mothers nursing and fathers cradling their babies in the rocking chairs.
I gulped again when the nurse led me toward another sectioned off area. My heart raced in its confines.
Fear and grief and hope.
They constricted and squeezed, my chest so tight I thought my heart might be physically crushed.
The nurse drew the curtain back slightly so I could slip through.
At the sight in front of me, a tiny sound climbed from my throat.
Love.
The impact of it was staggering.
My infant son lay riddled with tubes and lines, attached to monitors, tape concealing the lower half of his face to keep the oxygen in place.
But I saw none of those things.
I saw the child that’d been given into my care.
I saw a little boy running on a playground.
I saw a future.
Slowly, I edged forward. Tears blurred my eyes as I looked down on my son. Hand shaking, I reached out and caressed my thumb across the back of his tiny hand.
Those tiny fingers searched, tightly wrapping around my finger.
He stared up at me.
I was certain that connection was greater than anything I’d ever felt.
My mouth trembled, overwhelmed with affection. With my free hand, I reached up and softly ran my knuckle down his plump cheek.
“My heart,” I whispered, and the little boy stared up at me as if he’d known me for a million years.
The little boy who would forever hold my heart.
And I murmured a million of those prayers into the air.
Believed.
And knew, right that second, with every part of me, I would never, ever give up on hope.
Blinking out of the reverie, I ran my fingertips over my eyelids, clearing the tears. Refusing to allow myself to spiral into hopelessness.
I just needed to focus on the fact Evan was okay. Spend this time in gratefulness.
Knees shaky, I opened the door.
Instantly, Evan was frantically signing my way, his eyes still dancing with his laughter. DR. BRYANT SAID HE WAS A NERD IN SCHOOL. DID YOU KNOW THAT? HE SAID NERDS ARE THE BEST. THEY GROW UP TO BE DOCTORS.
Nerds are the best.
The memory of him teasing me about being a nerd that first night hit me.
This man. He had completely demolished me in the best of ways.
A sound that was half a sob and half laughter tripped from my mouth. It originated somewhere in my spirit.
The sound made up of the remnants of terror I’d felt this afternoon.
The astounding relief when I’d found Evan was really okay.
The million emotions Kale had taken me through earlier at his loft. The need and the desire and the beauty.
The pure adoration I felt then.
It was all there.
Compounding.
Kale stood from the bed, and I sucked in a shattered breath.
“Come on, let’s get your little man home.”
I felt him in the doorway behind me.
His presence thick and potent and powerful. It surged into the room, a crashing wave, taking me whole.
It was late, close to one in the morning.
I’d been kneeling in the same spot on the floor beside Evan’s bed for the last three hours. Watching him sleep. Just . . . feeling the beat of his heart.
My amazing son, who’d fallen asleep on the way home from the hospital.
Kale had carried him in from the car and laid him in his bed. The way he’d done the night before.