Part 4 — “You Still Have Time”
Kimberly had never been an easy mother-in-law.
She wasn’t openly cruel to me.
She was simply the kind of woman who could turn criticism into concern so smoothly that you sometimes thanked her before realizing you had just been insulted.
Oddly enough, our infertility had softened our relationship.
During treatment, she mailed vitamins.
Sent encouraging messages.
Forwarded articles.
Sometimes she prayed with me over the phone.
When I finally became pregnant, she bought enough baby clothes for Noah to change outfits three times a day.
She called him “our miracle.”
So when Kimberly walked into my hospital room, I expected tears.
Instead, she stopped several feet from the bed.
Her eyes went immediately to Noah.
Then to Brandon.
Her face changed.
“Brandon texted me.”
I looked at him.
“We were going to tell everyone together.”
Kimberly barely acknowledged me.
She moved closer to her son and lowered her voice.
Not low enough.
“You still have time to leave him.”
For a moment, I genuinely thought I had heard her wrong.
Brandon stiffened.
“What did you say?”
Kimberly glanced toward me.
Then at Noah.
“You’re still young.”
She swallowed.
“You could start over.”
I instinctively pulled my son closer.
Every protective instinct inside me erupted at once.
“Get out.”
Kimberly looked at me as though I were being irrational.
“Jannet, I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“You just told my husband to abandon our newborn son.”
“You don’t know what this life could become.”
“Get out.”
Instead of leaving immediately, she touched Brandon’s arm.
“You need to think about your future.”
Then she walked out.
I stared at the door.
When I turned toward Brandon, he was looking at the floor.
And that terrified me more than anything his mother had said.
I wanted outrage.
I wanted him to chase her into the hallway.
I wanted to hear him say, “How dare you?”
Instead, there was silence.
“Brandon.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Say something.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Your mother just told you to leave Noah.”
“I heard her.”
“And you stood there.”
“I was shocked.”
“So was I.”
His eyes finally met mine.
“I need a minute, Jannet.”
Those four words planted a fear inside me that I couldn’t get rid of.
Part 5 — Every Secret Call Felt Like an Answer
The next morning, Kimberly started calling.
Brandon’s phone buzzed repeatedly before breakfast.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
By the sixth call, he finally answered and walked into the hallway.
When he came back, I looked at him.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she want?”
He sighed.
“The same thing.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’m not discussing it with her.”
That should have comforted me.
It didn’t.
By afternoon, Kimberly had started sending articles.
Whenever Brandon’s phone lit up beside the bed, I caught pieces of the messages.
Statistics.
Worst-case scenarios.
Stories presented without context.
Fear disguised as research.
One message read:
You don’t understand what you’re committing yourself to.
Another:
Don’t destroy your life just because guilt is controlling you.
I watched him read them.
He rarely responded while I was looking.
Then he started taking her calls outside the room.
At night, he would step into the dim hallway.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Sometimes longer.
When I asked what they were discussing, his answer was always some variation of the same thing.
“I’m handling it.”
That phrase became unbearable.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t need to worry about my mother.”
“I already am worried about your mother.”
“Jannet—”
“No. I’m worried about you.”
His face tightened.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t know what you’re telling her when you walk away from me.”
“I’ve already told you I don’t agree with her.”
“Then why are these conversations secret?”
“Because you’ve just given birth. Noah is being evaluated. You’re exhausted. I don’t want to dump more stress on you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You think wondering whether my husband is considering abandoning our son is less stressful?”
His expression changed.
“I’m not abandoning him.”
“Then stop making me guess.”
He looked toward Noah’s bassinet.
“Please try to rest.”
Something in me snapped.
“Do not tell me to rest when I’m asking you whether our family is still a family.”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
And somehow his silence frightened me all over again.
That night, I barely slept.
Noah’s echocardiogram showed a small heart defect.
The cardiologist believed there was a chance it could close on its own.
Under any other circumstances, I would have clung to that encouraging news.
Instead, part of my mind remained fixed on Brandon.
His mother’s name appearing on his screen.
His lowered voice in the hallway.
His unreadable face when he came back.
I imagined him leaving the hospital without us.
I imagined raising Noah alone.
I imagined Kimberly slowly convincing Brandon that his son’s life would be nothing except sacrifice.
And I hated myself for wondering whether the man who had cried beside me through five years of infertility could truly be convinced to walk away now that the child we had begged for was finally here.
