He had left me on the bathroom floor to bleed.

He had gone to a dinner with his mother while his son was being born in a pool of blood.

“Get out,” I croaked.

Ryan blinked, his lips tightening into a thin, hard line.

“Emma, you are emotional and you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I am your husband,” he said, bending down so his face was inches from mine.

“I know what is best for this family, and we are not going to make a scene in this hospital.”

The heavy wooden door to the room swung open with a soft click.

Thomas stood in the doorway, still wearing his stained flannel shirt, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

In his arms, wrapped in a hospital-issue pink and blue blanket, was Ethan.

“I told the nurses you weren’t allowed back here, Dad,” Ryan said, turning to face his father.

“You don’t have medical power of attorney, Ryan,” Thomas said quietly, his voice steady.

“And Emma is awake.”

Thomas walked past his son as if he were made of air and stood on the opposite side of my bed.