Chapter 13 - A Hand Through the Incubator
Nicolás was nine days old when the nurse finally let me sit beside his incubator long enough to slide two fingers through a small opening. He wrapped his hand around the tip of my little finger. His grip was barely there, yet it seemed to hold my whole life together.
"Hi, Nico," I whispered. "You scared me. I think I scared you, too."
He made a tiny movement with his mouth. Every machine sound meant something. I was learning not to fear them all.
Daniel stood behind me, careful not to touch my shoulder without asking. We'd agreed he could visit the children while we worked out separate living arrangements. He was staying at a motel. Alma was with Ruth and Ruth's husband, who made pancakes shaped like misshapen stars.
"I found an apartment," Daniel said. "Two bedrooms. Near Alma's school. It's ready next month."
"That's a practical start," I replied.
He nodded. There had been a time when he would've treated those words like permission to come home. Now he knew they meant exactly what they said.
Nicolás's oxygen reading dipped, then recovered. I held my breath until the nurse explained what she was doing. Nothing about this place could be controlled by being louder or more certain. We learned, checked, and waited.
"I want to ask something," Daniel said after a while. "If our son comes home, can I be there?"
"We'll make a plan with his care team. I need you to understand that living with me isn't part of it."
His face tightened. "I understand."
On the way out, a receptionist stopped us. Someone had tried to enter the neonatal unit claiming to be the child's legal guardian. The staff had turned her away.
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"She left this at the desk," the receptionist said, holding out an envelope.
Inside was a small white christening outfit and a note in Beatriz's handwriting: I WILL NOT BE ERASED.
