Mom, Dad’s Getting Married Today. My Anniversary Call From The Future Chapter 12

Mom, Dad’s Getting Married Today. My Anniversary Call From The Future Chapter 12

The elevator doors slid shut.

I watched her lips move-but in the end, nothing came out.

A month later, my parents were both discharged.

Rory’s company officially went into bankruptcy.

Lena refused to let go of the marriage.

They dragged it out for half a year. They became a joke.

Gemma and Rory’s friends?

Their names were ruined. Everywhere they went, people talked.

I scrolled through the news. No reaction.

But sometimes, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and reach for my phone on the pillow.

That red exclamation mark in the chat. I looked at it again and again.

Later, I went to the hospital. Reproductive health.

I wanted a child. My own.

The doctor was in her fifties. She flipped through my test results and adjusted her glasses.

She told me to browse the donor database.

I remembered that girl’s face. The one in my dream.

I picked one with a bright smile.

The next ten months, I gained twenty-six pounds.

My legs swelled so much I couldn’t fit into my old shoes. Cramps woke me up three times a night.

My mom cooked for me every day. My dad spent hours studying diaper brands.

The day of the C-section, they wheeled me into the OR.

The anesthesiologist injected my back.

Soon, I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down.

Then I heard a cry.

Small. Wet. Like the first spring rain hitting dry ground.

The nurse brought her over and placed her beside my face.

Her eyes were closed. Her skin was wrinkled.

Her hair was damp against her forehead.

Tiny nose. Tiny mouth. Her whole face smaller than my palm.

I tilted my head to look at her.

Tears slid down my temples into my hair.

It tickled.

She opened her eyes.

Dark irises, wet and bright, shifted once.

That one look-something hit me square in the chest.

She stared at me for three seconds.

Then closed her eyes again.

The nurse said, “6.8 pounds. Perfectly healthy.”

Later, when it was time to name her, my mom flipped through a dictionary for three days.

She came up with a dozen names. None felt right.

My dad said he’d taught all his life-and never expected to be stumped by a name.

I took the birth certificate and wrote down:

Ruby Hale.

My mom asked what it meant.

I said nothing. It just sounded right.

She lay in my arms, her tiny fingers wrapped around my index finger.

Her nails were pink, thin enough to see through.

She yawned-her little mouth opened wide, then closed.

Her lashes fluttered.

I kissed her forehead.

“Welcome back.”

She didn’t wake.

Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across her small blanket.

I held her in the light, brushing my thumb across the back of her hand.

From now on-

My baby’s name was Ruby.

She was my precious daughter.