She tucked the blanket around her legs and turned back toward her sister.
A few minutes later, I picked up my phone again.
My mother had sent another message.
My father had added a question mark beneath his demand.
Courtney had written that everyone was stressed and I was making it worse.
I did not answer.
I opened each contact and blocked them one by one.
My mother.
My father.
My sister.
I did not feel strong while I did it.
I felt hollow.
The decision was not a victory, and it did not repair anything.
It was simply the first thing I could control.
Kevin returned carrying two paper cups and one small bag from the cafeteria.
He looked at my face, then at the phone.
“What happened?”
I handed it to him.
He read the messages without speaking.
His jaw tightened at my mother’s words, then again at my father’s.
When he reached Courtney’s message, he set the phone down carefully.
“You don’t have to deal with them tonight,” he said.
“I blocked them.”
“Good.”
The word came out firm, but he did not celebrate it.
He put one coffee on the windowsill, opened the bag, and tried to convince me to eat half a sandwich.
I managed two bites.
That night, Kevin tried to make me sleep.
“You had surgery three days ago,” he reminded me.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“You don’t have to leave the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving this room.”
Brooklyn sat up beneath her blanket.
“I’m staying too.”
The charge nurse had already explained the rules more than once, but Brooklyn looked so frightened at the idea of leaving that Kevin made a quiet call from the hallway.
After several reminders and a promise that we would keep the room calm, someone brought her another blanket and allowed her to curl into the recliner.
She arranged it herself, making sure she could still see the incubator.
At 11:06 p.m., our night nurse, Gloria, entered to check Rosalie’s chart.
Gloria moved with the careful confidence of someone who understood that parents in the NICU studied every expression before they heard a word.
She looked at the monitor, examined the tubing, and recorded the numbers.
Then she turned to us.
“Her numbers are a little better,” she whispered. “If this continues, the doctor may discuss weaning her in a few days.”
Hope rose so fast that it scared me.
I nodded because speaking felt dangerous.
Kevin placed his hand on my shoulder.
Brooklyn smiled at the incubator.
“Did you hear that, Rosie?”
Gloria’s expression softened.
Before she left, she paused at the door.
“The front desk says an older woman with silver hair is asking about the baby,” she said. “She says she’s the grandmother.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
My mother had found a way around the blocked phone.
“She is not on the authorized visitor list,” I said. “Do not let her in.”
Gloria looked at my face and did not ask for the family history.
