The sterile, antiseptic smell of the private suite at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan was supposed to be just a memory by now. I, Amelia Sinclair, had been counting down the hours. Three days. For seventy-two hours, I had existed inside a strange, exhausted bubble made of fatigue, overwhelming love, and the kind of deep, bone-level soreness 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. 4:15 p.m. The discharge paperwork should have been there by now. Tristan, my husband, was pacing near the window with his phone pressed to his ear. He was not wearing the sweats he had promised he would wear for the drive home. Instead, he had on a crisp button-down shirt, the kind he saved for important client dinners.
“I understand,” he said into the phone, his voice a low, practiced murmur. “Yes, of course. We appreciate you holding it. We’ll be there by seven. Thank you, Jean-Pierre.”
He ended the call and turned toward me with a brilliant, excited smile on his face. It was the smile that had charmed me across a crowded charity gala two years earlier. Right then, it felt deeply misplaced.
“That was the maître 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? Three months we waited for this reservation. Three months, and Jean-Pierre himself is holding our table. My parents are already on their way into the city. They’re so excited.”
A cold trickle of dread started in my chest.
“Your parents? 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’s 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 into 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 walked over and perched on the edge of my bed, placing 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. And I’ll be home right after dinner. We’ll celebrate properly then.”
“A car service?”
I stared at him, disbelief pouring 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 for one bare second, and I saw the impatient man underneath.
“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 damn 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?”
That phrase hit me like a physical blow.
“Given up? What have you given up, Tristan?”
