Chapter 2 - The Husband Who Never Came
The paper on the hospital bed felt like a sheet of ice against my fingertips. The signature—Mark’s scrawl, precise and confident—burned a hole through the manila folder. Three months ago. Before the twins were even conceived. I stared at it, my chest heaving, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Mark to burst through the door and scream that his mother had lost her mind.
But the room was silent. The only sound was the rhythmic, beeping hum of the infant monitors attached to Grace and Leo.
I reached for my phone, my thumb trembling as I scrolled through Mark’s contact list. I pressed call. One ring. Two. I held the phone to my ear, praying for his voice, for any explanation. Instead, a cold, mechanical voicemail filled the silence.
"Mark, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Pick up. Please."
The line went dead. I tried again. Voicemail. Again. Again.
"Mark, where are you?" I slammed the phone onto the bedside table. Panic, sharp and acidic, began to rise in my throat. This wasn't just a prank. Diane wasn't joking. She was serious.
I turned to the woman sitting in the stiff, plastic chair by the window. Diane hadn't looked at me since she produced the document. She was smoothing the crease in her skirt, her expression bored, as if she were waiting for a bus in the rain rather than holding legal custody of my newborn son.
"Mark is coming," I said, my voice gaining a sharper edge. I needed her to believe it. I needed to believe it myself. "He's stuck in traffic. He's going to be furious. You can't just take him."
Diane didn't look up. "He knows. I told him I was coming."
"He doesn't know!" I yelled, clutching Grace tighter to my chest. Her tiny fingers curled around my thumb. "Diane, look at me. This is illegal. Mark would never sign this."
"He signed it," Diane said, her tone flat, devoid of emotion. "And he signed the medical proxy. I’m afraid you’re too emotional to make these decisions right now."
"What are you talking about? What decisions?"
Diane finally turned. Her eyes were cold, calculating. "Karen has been trying to have a baby for five years. She’s been through so much. The doctors say she can’t carry one, but she wants to be a mother. We’re doing this for her. It’s the only logical thing to do."
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of shock. "Karen is your daughter. Why does she need a baby? Why does she need Leo?"
"Because she needs a life," Diane snapped. "And you’re just going to give her away. You don't deserve both of them anyway. You're still recovering. You're weak."
I felt a cold dread settle deep in my bones. This wasn't about Karen. This was about power. But I couldn't focus on the conspiracy. I needed Mark. I needed the police. I needed someone who wasn't his mother.
I looked toward the nurses' station at the end of the hall. A nurse was walking by, pushing a cart. I stood up, my legs wobbly, and waved my hand frantically.
"Hey! Nurse! I need help! I need security! My mother-in-law is kidnapping my son!"
The nurse looked up. She was young, maybe twenty, with a headset on. She didn't look at me. She didn't even pause. She kept walking, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if I were just another piece of hospital furniture.
I stared at her retreating back, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. Was she blind? Was she deaf? I tried again, louder this time. "Nurse! Call the police!"
She kept walking.
"Hey! Stop!"
Finally, she stopped. She turned slowly, her face blank. She tapped her headset. "Nurse's station. Repeat. Patient is agitated. Requesting assistance."
Then, without a word, she walked into a side room and shut the door.
I slumped back onto the bed, breathless. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier. I looked out the window. The parking lot was empty, but the glass door was locked. And standing there, hands clasped behind his back, was the security guard I had seen earlier.
But he wasn't the guard I had met when I checked in. He was taller, broader, wearing a dark suit instead of a uniform. His face was impassive, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk scanning a field.
I looked back at Diane. She was still holding the manila folder, but now she was tapping her phone against her leg.
"Mark isn't coming," I whispered, the reality sinking in.
"He doesn't need to come," Diane said softly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, hitting a speed dial. "I've already handled it."
I watched her face as she spoke. "Hello, Dr. Aris. Yes. The patient is... resistant. No, don't bring the police. We have the legal authority. Yes. She's unstable. Very unstable."
She hung up and looked at me, a cruel smile playing on her lips.
"Who is Dr. Aris?" I demanded, backing away until my back hit the headboard.
"Your new doctor," Diane said, standing up. She walked toward me, the click of her heels echoing in the sterile room. "And he's going to make sure you don't hurt yourself—or those babies."
The door swung open before she could reach me. A man in a sharp white coat stepped inside. He was middle-aged, with silver hair and a clipboard. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Diane. He looked at the floor.
"Mrs. Vance," the man said, his voice smooth, professional. "I've been briefed. The Board has granted me temporary medical proxy. I'm here to evaluate your mental state."
"Diane!" I screamed, reaching for the phone again. "Call the police! He's a fraud! He's not a doctor!"
The man sighed, a look of pity crossing his face. He looked at Diane. "Is she sedated?"
"Not yet," Diane said, stepping into the room and blocking the door. "But she will be. For her own good."
The man nodded and pulled a syringe from his pocket. "Please, Mrs. Vance. It's for your safety. You're suffering from postpartum psychosis. It's a dangerous condition."
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He advanced toward me, his eyes cold. "You're going to let us help you."
I looked at the syringe, then at the door, and finally at Diane. She was smiling now, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. I realized then that there was no Mark. There was no traffic. There was no rescue coming.
