The Promises You Make in a Hospital
Everything broke apart after Rachel’s fourth baby was born.
A little girl she named Rebecca — Becca.
The pregnancy had been hard.
Bed rest. Complications. The kind of tired that sits in the eyes.
Then, barely a month after Becca came home, Rachel’s husband died in a car accident.
I was folding laundry when my phone rang.
“I need you,” Rachel said.
Not hello. Not small talk.
Just raw need.
At the hospital, she sat in a plastic chair holding the baby carrier between her knees like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
