Chapter 9 - THE LONGEST NIGHT
Dr. Mercer admitted me that afternoon.
“Your daughter is strong,” she said. “But we want to keep her exactly where she is for as long as possible.”
Bed rest.
Medication.
Monitoring.
Steroid injections to help the baby’s lungs develop in case she arrived early.
Dorian transformed the hospital room into something halfway between a nursery and a security office within twelve hours.
I made him remove half of it.
“You cannot install three monitors beside my bed.”
“I need information.”
“You need therapy.”
“I’m going.”
“Go more.”
He stared at me.
Then laughed.
The nurses loved him.
Not because he was charming.
Dorian wasn’t charming when nervous.
He became intensely helpful.
He learned every medication.
Recorded every contraction.
Asked doctors so many questions that one resident finally handed him a medical journal and told him to occupy himself.
At two in the morning, I woke and found him asleep in a chair holding the pregnancy book against his chest.
I watched him for a long time.
This was the same man who had broken my heart.
The same man who had lied.
The same man who had made choices that would take him away from us for eighteen months.
And still, he was the man I loved.
People like simple stories.
Good man.
Bad man.
Good marriage.
Bad marriage.
Real life is rarely that clean.
Sometimes a person can hurt you terribly and change.
Sometimes forgiveness isn’t forgetting.
Sometimes love means requiring accountability rather than avoiding it.
At thirty-two weeks, I was allowed home under strict restrictions.
At thirty-five weeks, Dorian’s sentencing date was confirmed.
Three weeks after my due date.
He would meet his daughter first.
That mattered.
At thirty-seven weeks, my water broke while Dorian was attempting pancakes.
Of course it did.
I stood in the kitchen staring at the floor.
He stared too.
“Dorian.”
“Yes.”
“I think my water broke.”
He dropped the spatula.
The pan caught fire.
I started laughing.
He didn’t.
“Hospital.”
“I know.”
“HOSPITAL.”
“I’m standing right here.”
He grabbed the emergency bag.
Forgot his phone.
Returned.
Forgot his shoes.
Returned again.
“Are you panicking?”
“No.”
“You’re wearing one shoe.”
He looked down.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I am not adorable.”
Another contraction hit.
I gripped the counter.
His face instantly changed.
The panic disappeared.
He was beside me in a second.
“Breathe.”
“I know how to breathe.”
“Right.”
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re breathing like you’re giving birth.”
“I’m supporting you.”
“Support quieter.”
Eight hours later, I hated him.
Twelve hours later, I hated everyone.
At fourteen hours, I informed Dr. Mercer that women had clearly been lied to about the miracle of childbirth.
At sixteen hours, Dorian made the mistake of saying, “You’re doing great.”
I told him exactly where he could put his encouragement.
Then everything changed.
The baby’s heart rate dropped.
People rushed into the room.
My laughter vanished.
“What’s happening?”
Dr. Mercer remained calm.
“We’re changing your position.”
Dorian gripped my hand.
The monitor continued alarming.
“We may need a C-section.”
Fear hit me with terrifying force.
“Do whatever you need.”
Dorian leaned close.
“I’m here.”
For once, those words were enough.
They rushed me toward surgery.
Dorian changed into scrubs and followed.
Twenty-three minutes later, I heard a cry.
Small.
Furious.
Perfect.
My daughter.
I started sobbing.
Dorian stood beside me, frozen.
Dr. Mercer lifted the baby enough for us to see her.
“Meet your daughter.”
She had dark hair.
A red face.
Tiny fists.
And an angry scream that seemed impossibly large.
Dorian broke.
Completely.
He cried harder than I did.
When a nurse placed our daughter against my chest, I looked at him.
“Come here.”
He touched her cheek with one trembling finger.
“She’s so small.”
“She’s seven pounds.”
“That’s small.”
“She’s a baby.”
Our daughter opened her eyes.
Dorian stared at her.
“Hi.”
His voice cracked.
“I’m Dad.”
I began crying again.
“What’s her name?” the nurse asked.
Dorian looked at me.
Months earlier, we had chosen one.
“Elena Grace Cross,” I said.
Grace.
Because we had needed more of it than either of us deserved.
Dorian kissed my forehead.
“Hello, Elena.”
Three weeks passed too quickly.
Then sentencing day arrived.
I went with him.
So did Julian.
Evelyn.
Caleb, still facing his own sentence, had submitted testimony supporting Dorian’s cooperation.
The judge acknowledged Dorian’s assistance.
She also made something clear.
“Cooperation does not erase responsibility.”
Dorian nodded.
“I understand.”
He received eighteen months.
Credit for time previously held.
Eligibility for reduced placement based on cooperation and behavior.
When he was allowed one final embrace before surrendering, he held me so tightly I could feel his heartbeat.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He looked down at Elena sleeping against my chest.
His face crumpled.
“Tell her about me.”
“I’ll tell her everything.”
He almost laughed.
“Maybe not everything.”
“Everything.”
He kissed our daughter.
Then me.
And walked away.
I cried in the courthouse bathroom until I couldn’t breathe.
But I went home.
I raised our daughter.
I visited Dorian every allowed weekend.
I sent photographs.
Videos.
Voice recordings.
At five months, Elena laughed whenever she heard his voice.
At seven months, she crawled.
At nine months, she said her first word.
“Ma.”
I made sure Dorian knew before anyone else.
At eleven months, his attorney called.
“Alina.”
Something in his voice made me stand.
“What happened?”
“There’s been a review of Dorian’s sentence based on extraordinary cooperation.”
My heart started pounding.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he may qualify for supervised early release.”
I stopped breathing.
“When?”
May you like
The attorney laughed.
“Possibly tomorrow.”
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