One In The Morning, A Fever That Would Not Break, And A Man Worried About A Slideshow Due At Nine

I handed him the baby. That was the thing they did not expect. I stood, adjusted her carefully, and placed our burning-hot five-month-old daughter into her father’s arms, and I said, loud enough for the triage nurse to hear, that if he was leaving with his mother then he was taking his child, because I was not going to be the only parent in the building. Then I sat back down, alone, and let the silence do what silence does in a full waiting room at one in the morning.

Dorian froze. He held her like she might break. Rosalind reached for the baby and I said, quite clearly, that she did not have my permission to remove my daughter from a hospital, and the nurse, who had been listening, stepped over and confirmed it. Rosalind’s mouth opened and nothing came out. For the first time in seven years I had said a full sentence to that woman and not softened the end of it.

He stayed. Not out of love, I think, but because leaving in front of witnesses was suddenly more expensive than staying. The baby had a urinary tract infection, treatable, and we were home by six. He made his presentation. I did not ask how it went.

What that night showed me was not new. It was simply undeniable, in fluorescent light, in front of strangers. I had been the only parent for five months and telling myself it was the newborn phase. It was not the phase. It was him.

We separated in the spring. I did not fight for much, because there was not much of him to fight for. He sees her every other weekend, at his mother’s house, which is exactly where he wanted to be that night anyway.

Rosalind and I do not speak. My own mother moved closer in the summer and comes on the hard nights, of which there are fewer now.

My daughter is two. She has never once had a fever I could not handle alone, because alone turned out to be what I had always been, only now it is honest, and lighter for it.

He said he did not sign up for the stress. Neither did I. I signed up for a daughter, and I have never for one second wanted to hand her back. The night I placed her in his arms, I was not giving her away. I was finally refusing to be the only one holding everything, and the moment my hands were free, I understood they had been strong the whole time.

Adrian Vale
Adrian Vale studied English literature. He is a novelist. He writes atmospheric literary fiction, quiet, character-driven stories about people who drift out of their own lives and the strange, lingering things that find them afterward.

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