Mark muttered in his sleep, not opening his eyes.
— “I don’t know.” Anna rubbed Lily’s back, but the baby wouldn’t calm down.
By the end of the second month, Lily began to lose weight. It was slow at first: a few ounces a week, then more. Anna weighed her on the baby scale and recorded the numbers in a notebook. Every week, the number was lower.
— “It happens sometimes,” the nurse said at the check-up. “Babies fluctuate. Are you sure she’s getting enough milk?”
But Anna had plenty of milk. Lily just seemed to lose interest, turning her face away and grimacing as if it hurt to swallow.
— “Let’s try formula,” Mark suggested one evening, looking worriedly at his wife.
They tried. Lily pushed the bottle away and cried—a weak, exhausted sound. By three months, she had stopped gaining weight entirely. She lay in her crib, staring at the ceiling with wide, dark eyes, her breathing so quiet Anna had to lean in every few minutes to check. One, two, three breaths. A pause. Then three more.
Mark started coming home later and later. He’d drop his briefcase and head straight to the bedroom.
— “How is she?” he’d ask, loosening his tie.
— “Not good,” Anna would reply, her eyes never leaving her daughter. “She’s fading, Mark.”
He’d sigh, sit on the edge of the bed, and look at Lily. Then he’d pull out his phone and check his emails. His fingers moved with a practiced, detached speed.
— “Maybe we should see a specialist in the city,” he said once, without looking up. “The big hospital downtown.”
— “With what money?” Anna turned to him. “We can barely afford the gas to get there.”
— “I’ll ask my parents,” he said, rubbing his face. “They’ll help.”
But he never asked. Instead, he stayed at the office longer. He’d call and say, “Big case. I’ll be late.” Anna sat alone in the creaky house, rocking her dying daughter. The silence was heavy, suffocating.
The crisis happened in the middle of the night. Anna woke up to a terrifying silence—no shallow breathing, no rustle of sheets. She bolted to the crib. Lily was motionless, her lips a faint blue, her eyes closed.
— “No, no, no!” Anna snatched her up. “Breathe! Please, Lily, breathe!”
The baby didn’t move. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Anna screamed, a raw, primal sound, and suddenly Lily gasped. A weak, rattling breath, but a breath nonetheless.
— “Call 911!” Anna fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped it.
The paramedics arrived twenty minutes later. The lead tech checked Lily’s vitals and shone a light in her eyes.
— “We’re taking her to the ER,” he said shortly. “Grab your things.”
The hospital smelled of bleach and fear. Lily was taken behind double doors immediately. Anna was left in a long, sterile hallway with peeling paint and uncomfortable plastic chairs. She called Mark. It rang four times before he picked up.
— “Hello?” he sounded groggy and annoyed.
— “Mark, we’re at the hospital!” Anna was hyperventilating. “Please come. She… she stopped breathing.”
There was a long pause. She could hear him sitting up in bed.
— “Now? What time is it?”
— “It’s three in the morning! It doesn’t matter! She’s in the ICU!”
Another pause. Too long.
— “Look, I have that deposition at nine. A huge client.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words for a jury. “I can’t miss it. I’ll come by after lunch, okay?”
Anna went numb. The phone felt like a lead weight in her hand.
— “Are you… are you serious?” she whispered.
— “Anna, I have to keep this job! We need the insurance!” He raised his voice, defensive. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done! I promise!”
The line went dead. Anna sank into a chair. The hallway seemed to stretch into infinity. A discarded newspaper lay on the seat next to her, smelling of stale ink.
She sat alone until dawn. She watched the clock on the wall; the second hand moved like it was stuck in molasses. At six a.m., a young doctor with dark circles under his eyes walked out.
— “Are you the mother?” he asked, and Anna nodded, unable to speak.
He sat down next to her, leaning forward. He looked at the floor.
— “We’ve stabilized her, but… we don’t know what’s wrong. Her labs are perfect. Her organs are fine. But she’s… fading. Like a battery that won’t hold a charge.”
Anna stopped breathing. The doctor’s words felt like physical blows.
— “What do I do?” she managed to ask.
— “Stay with her. That’s all we can suggest right now.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Somewhere, a faucet dripped. Anna sat in the void for a moment, then stood up. She walked into the ICU. Lily was in a plastic bassinet, hooked up to monitors and tubes. She was breathing through a mask, her tiny chest barely moving. Anna reached through the opening and touched her hand.
— “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t protect you.”
She sat there for two hours. Nurses came and went, whispering. One brought her a cup of lukewarm coffee, but Anna didn’t touch it. At eight a.m., she stood up and found the doctor.
— “I’m taking her home,” she said firmly.
— “What?”
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