His lips parted.
Then he adjusted the blanket and looked carefully at the baby’s back.
“Ryan?”
He didn’t answer.
Melissa wiped tears from her cheeks.
“Give her to me. I want to hold her.”
Ryan still didn’t move toward his wife.
Instead, he looked at me.
His face had gone pale.
Then he said something in a flat, unfamiliar voice.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t take her home.”
The room became completely silent.
I stared at him.
“What did you just say?”
“I can’t take her home.”
Melissa’s smile remained frozen for a second.
“What are you talking about? Ryan, give me the baby.”
He looked at his wife.
Then at me.
And finally said the words that shattered the entire room.
“I can’t do this. I’m giving her up. I’m not taking her home.”
Then he placed the baby back into my arms.
My body was still shaking from labor.
I could barely process what was happening.
“Ryan, this is your daughter.”
Melissa was already standing.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why won’t you take our daughter home?”
My brother refused to look at her.
Instead, he stared at the floor.
Then he whispered,
“Look at her back.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed anything.
Carefully, I turned the baby slightly and lowered the blanket.
Near the base of her spine was a small raised reddish area covered by skin.
No bigger than a coin.
My stomach turned.
I had read enough pregnancy information to recognize what it might be.
“Spina bifida,” I whispered.
Melissa screamed.
Not cried.
Screamed.
“The ultrasounds were normal! They said she was healthy!”
Ryan still wouldn’t look at anyone.
Nurse Bianca rushed into the room with another nurse.
Melissa was falling apart.
And then my brother did something I never imagined he could do.
He walked out.
He simply turned around, left the delivery room, and disappeared down the hallway.
I sat there, exhausted and still connected to monitors, holding a newborn baby whose parents had just emotionally collapsed.
Nurse Bianca crouched beside me.
“Ivy, look at me. Breathe.”
I looked down at the little girl.
She had already stopped crying.
Her tiny mouth opened and closed softly.
I pulled her closer.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I whispered. “Do you hear me? Nobody is abandoning you.”
At that moment, I believed Ryan had rejected his daughter because of her diagnosis.
Three days later, I discovered the truth was much uglier.
My kitchen felt like a courtroom.
Ryan stood on one side of the counter.
I stood on the other wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, surviving on almost no sleep.
The baby was asleep in a bassinet near the window.
