I Had His Daughter: She Had His Name Chapter 01

I Had His Daughter: She Had His Name Chapter 01

Twelve hours of contractions, and I finally got through to my husband.

My voice was shaking. “She’s here. It’s a girl. The daughter you always wanted.”

Silence on the other end. A long, hollow silence. Then he said, “Got it. I’m in a meeting. We’ll talk later.”

I held the phone against my ear, listening to the dead line, and tears slid soundlessly into my pillow.

I wiped my eyes and looked down at my daughter beside me. “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s just busy. He’ll come see us soon.”

In the next bed over, Vivian Langford was making a call of her own.

Her voice was syrupy sweet. “Babe, you bought so much stuff. You even got burp cloths in three different colors.”

She hung up and waved her phone at me. “My husband is so thoughtful. He started packing the hospital bag three months ago.”

Her eyes drifted to my empty nightstand. She blinked, then went quiet.

That look hurt worse than the contractions.

That night, I held my daughter and couldn’t sleep. I sent him another message: [Honey, she looks just like you. Come see her when you can.]

No reply.

At midnight, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Vivian sat bolt upright, her voice bright with excitement. “He’s here, he’s here.”

The door swung open.

A man strode in carrying flowers and a bag of fruit.

Vivian reached out with a smile. “What took you so long? The baby and I have been waiting forever.”

He kissed Vivian, then looked up and saw me.

He froze.

I stared back at him. At this man who had told me he was away on a business trip.

I started laughing. Laughed until the tears spilled over.

The card tucked into Grant Calloway’s flowers read: [You did so well, Viv. Thank you for giving me Colton.]

Colton.

He’d already picked a name.

Before our daughter was born, Grant used to rest his hand on my belly and say that if it was a girl, we’d call her Luna.

He’d said, “Luna means the moon not quite full. I just want our daughter to live a life of quiet contentment.”

But now he was holding Vivian’s son, his palm pressed gently against the baby’s back, rocking him with a tenderness I recognized.

My daughter woke up beside me.

She cried from hunger, her voice thin and feeble.

Grant heard her.

He didn’t look down.

The smile on Vivian’s face slowly faded. She looked at Grant’s rigid expression, and her voice dropped. “Grant, do you know her?”

I held my daughter and waited for him to speak.

All he did was look away. “Someone who helped me out once,” he said quietly.

Six years of marriage. Twelve hours of labor. And in the end, that was all it amounted to.

I thought about the year his startup collapsed, how debt collectors cornered him in the stairwell on Christmas Eve. I sold the only gold bracelet my mother ever left me to cover one of his interest payments.

That night, he held me and said, “Stella, when I make it, I’ll give you a real home.”

Turns out there was never a place for me in that home.

The nurse came in with two forms. She went to Vivian’s bed first. “Mr. Calloway, we’ve collected the birth information for Ms. Langford’s baby. We need you to confirm and sign the father’s name.”

Grant took the pen. His name went down on Vivian’s son’s birth record.

When the nurse flipped to the second form, she hesitated. She looked at me, then back at Grant. “Ms. Whitfield’s form also lists Grant Calloway as the father.”

“You’ll need to verify this as well. Otherwise, the father’s line on the birth certificate will have to stay blank.”

The room went dead silent.

Vivian’s face drained of color. She looked at Grant, her lips trembling. “Her baby is yours too?”

Grant didn’t answer.

I clutched the swaddling blanket tighter. My daughter was still crying.

Grant finally glanced at her.

Then he said, “Leave it blank for now.”

Vivian’s baby stirred in her arms. Grant turned immediately, gently patting the boy’s back.

“Don’t wake Viv.”

The nurse stood there awkwardly, then handed the form to me. “Ms. Whitfield, we’ll leave the father’s line empty for now.”

I looked down at the paper. Mother: Stella Whitfield. Father: blank.

But her father was standing six feet away, holding someone else’s son.

My chest felt hollow.

All through the pregnancy, I kept imagining the day she was born. Would Grant be the first to hold her?

She was here now. And he wouldn’t even give her his name.

She cried harder.

The nurse touched her tiny face and frowned. “The baby’s blood sugar is low. Did the family prepare formula?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

There was nothing. Not because I hadn’t wanted to prepare. Because Grant had said he would take care of everything.

Vivian’s suitcase sat open beside her bed. Bottles, a bottle warmer, diapers, swaddles, tiny outfits, everything brand new and perfectly coordinated, right down to the color scheme.

Grant was silent for a few seconds, then reached into the suitcase and pulled out a small can of formula.

But Vivian caught his sleeve.

Her eyes were rimmed red, her voice wounded. “Grant, Colton needs that too. His stomach is sensitive. The doctor said we can’t just switch brands on him.”

Grant’s hand hung in midair.

A few seconds later, he put the formula back.

“Stella, the hospital has backup formula. Just use that for now.”

I looked at him.

“That’s your daughter.”

He frowned slightly. “I know.”

I held my trembling, crying daughter, and my heartached so badly I couldn’t breathe.

So the child I’d sweated and screamed through twelve hours to bring into this world hadn’t even been held by her father yet, and she was already learning to step aside.

Vivian’s eyes grew redder.

“Grant, I didn’t know about this child…”

“Don’t overthink it.” Grant cut her off, his voice gentle. “You just gave birth. You can’t be crying.”

When he turned to me, his tone went cold.

“Stella, don’t make a scene.”

I was in labor for twelve hours.

I signed the anesthesia consent form alone.

I was wheeled into the delivery room alone.

I called him alone after our baby was born.

And in the end, all of that was just making a scene.

I looked at him, and suddenly I was so tired.

I pushed the birth information form back into the nurse’s hands.

“Leave the father’s line blank. Not temporarily.”

“Permanently.”