I carried my newborn into the emergency room in the dead of night, running on fumes. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, my body ached from surgery, and fear gripped my chest like steel. I didn’t expect the man in the tailored suit to make the night worse—or the doctor’s calm authority to flip everything upside down in seconds.
My name is Martha, and exhaustion is my default.
In college, I joked I could survive on iced coffee and three hours of sleep. Now it’s reality. My fuel: lukewarm formula, vending machine snacks, and instinct. All for a tiny human who had owned my heart in just three weeks.
Her name is Olivia. She wouldn’t stop crying.
We sat under the harsh fluorescent lights of the ER waiting room. I slumped in a plastic chair, pajama pants stained from childbirth, one arm holding Olivia, the other steadying her bottle. Her skin burned too hot. My instincts screamed.
Three weeks earlier, I had become a mother alone. Olivia’s father disappeared the moment he saw the pregnancy test. My parents were gone too. No safety net. Just me, my baby, and hope.
Then he appeared. The man in the crisp suit, gold Rolex flashing. Impatient, loud, entitled.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “How long do we have to wait?”
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