“I blocked them.”
“Good.”
The word came out firm, but he did not celebrate it.
He put one coffee on the windowsill, opened the bag, and tried to convince me to eat half a sandwich.
I managed two bites.
That night, Kevin tried to make me sleep.
“You had surgery three days ago,” he reminded me.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“You don’t have to leave the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving this room.”
Brooklyn sat up beneath her blanket.
“I’m staying too.”
The charge nurse had already explained the rules more than once, but Brooklyn looked so frightened at the idea of leaving that Kevin made a quiet call from the hallway.
After several reminders and a promise that we would keep the room calm, someone brought her another blanket and allowed her to curl into the recliner.
She arranged it herself, making sure she could still see the incubator.
At 11:06 p.m., our night nurse, Gloria, entered to check Rosalie’s chart.
Gloria moved with the careful confidence of someone who understood that parents in the NICU studied every expression before they heard a word.
She looked at the monitor, examined the tubing, and recorded the numbers.
Then she turned to us.
“Her numbers are a little better,” she whispered. “If this continues, the doctor may discuss weaning her in a few days.”
Hope rose so fast that it scared me.
I nodded because speaking felt dangerous.
Kevin placed his hand on my shoulder.
Brooklyn smiled at the incubator.
“Did you hear that, Rosie?”
Gloria’s expression softened.
Before she left, she paused at the door.
“The front desk says an older woman with silver hair is asking about the baby,” she said. “She says she’s the grandmother.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
My mother had found a way around the blocked phone.
“She is not on the authorized visitor list,” I said. “Do not let her in.”
Gloria looked at my face and did not ask for the family history.
“I’ll update the desk and the visitor log.”
“Please make sure everyone knows.”
“I will.”
The door closed behind her.
I stared at it.
I expected my mother’s voice to rise in the hallway.
I expected her to tell strangers that I was cruel, dramatic, selfish, ungrateful, or confused from medication.
I expected her to turn my boundary into another injury I had supposedly caused her.
But the hallway stayed quiet.
Ten minutes passed.
