PART 1
My name is Claire Bennett.
Three days after my emergency C-section, I was sitting beside my newborn daughter’s incubator in the NICU at Emory University Hospital.
Her name was Sophie.
She had arrived six weeks early.
She weighed barely four pounds.
Her lungs were not ready.
A ventilator breathed for her.
Every hiss from the machine made my chest tighten.
Every change in the monitor made me look up.
Every time a nurse approached, I stopped breathing until I knew whether the news was good or bad.
I had not slept properly since Sophie was born.
My incision hurt.
My back hurt.
My head hurt.
But none of that mattered.
All I cared about was the tiny baby beneath the clear plastic dome.
Then my phone buzzed.
Mom.
I almost ignored it.
I should have.
Instead, I opened the message.
“Gender reveal is at 5 tomorrow.”
“Bring the chocolate mousse cake from Bellini’s.”
“Don’t show up empty-handed and useless like last time.”
For several seconds, I just stared.
Sophie’s ventilator continued breathing beside me.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My mother knew where I was.
She knew Sophie had been born early.
She knew my daughter was on a machine helping her breathe.
And she was worried about cake.
PART 2
Before Sophie came early, I had agreed to help with my sister Vanessa’s gender reveal.
That part was true.
Vanessa was thirty-two.
Two years younger than me.
She was pregnant with her first child.
My mother had been planning the party like a royal event.
Balloon arch.
Professional photographer.
Custom cookies.
Pink and blue flower arrangements.
A catered lunch.
A giant white box filled with balloons.
And, apparently, chocolate mousse cake from Bellini’s.
I had agreed to pick it up.
That was before my pregnancy became complicated.
Before my blood pressure spiked.
Before the doctors said Sophie had to come immediately.
Before I was rushed into surgery.
Before I heard her tiny cry once and then watched a team of doctors carry her away.
Life had changed.
Apparently my mother’s schedule had not.
