My Husband Gave My Baby Away

Yasmin moved into the penthouse like water filling a space. Slow. Inevitable. Everywhere.

I came back from the hospital on bed rest. Dr. Osei's orders were strict: minimal movement, no stress, constant monitoring. Dane hired a private nurse who checked my vitals twice a day and left printed meal plans on the kitchen counter that no one followed.

Yasmin was always there when I woke up. Always in the living room when I came out of the bedroom. Always with that soft smile, that careful voice.

"How are you feeling, Ashlyn?"

"Can I get you anything?"

"You should really be resting."

She redecorated the guest bathroom. New towels. New soap. A diffuser that made the whole hallway smell like lavender and something else I couldn't name. She filled the coat closet with her things—cashmere, silk, labels I recognized from the boutiques Victoria shopped at.

Dane said nothing about it.

I watched her arrange flowers in the entryway one morning. White roses. She tilted her head, adjusted one stem, stepped back to admire her work. She caught me watching and smiled.

"Do you like them? I thought they'd brighten the space."

I didn't answer. I turned and went back to the bedroom.

The keepsake box sat on the shelf in the closet where it had been for three years. A small wooden box my father made when I was twelve. Inside: photographs of my parents on their wedding day, my mother's letters written during her last hospital stay, my father's watch with the inscription on the back. *For all our tomorrows.*

I opened it sometimes. Not often. Just when I needed to remember there was a version of me that existed before the Stephens family swallowed everything else.

---

It happened on a Thursday.

I was in the bedroom, lying down like I was supposed to. The nurse had just left. I heard Yasmin in the closet, humming something soft and tuneless.

"What are you doing?" I called out.

She appeared in the doorway, holding one of Dane's jackets. "Just making room. He asked me to organize his winter things."

She went back inside. I heard hangers sliding. Fabric rustling.

Then the crash.

I sat up too fast. Pain shot through my abdomen. I pressed my hand to my stomach and forced myself to breathe.

When I got to the closet, Yasmin was on her knees, surrounded by broken wood and scattered photographs. My mother's letters were spread across the floor. A pool of coffee—her cup, knocked over—was seeping into the paper, turning the ink into bleeding shadows.

The watch lay in two pieces.

"Oh my God." Yasmin's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God, Ashlyn, I'm so sorry. I was reaching for the shelf and I just—I didn't see it—"

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

She scrambled to gather the photographs, but her hands were shaking and she knocked more of them into the coffee. "I'll fix this. I can fix this. We can get the watch repaired, and the letters, maybe if we—"

"Get out."

My voice didn't sound like mine. It was low. Flat.

Yasmin looked up at me. Her eyes were wide. Wet. "Ashlyn, please, it was an accident. I didn't mean—"

"Get. Out."

She stood slowly, still holding one of the photographs. My mother in a hospital bed, smiling at the camera. Yasmin set it down carefully on the shelf and backed toward the door.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

She left.

I knelt down in the coffee and the broken wood and picked up the watch. The crystal face was shattered. The hands had stopped at 3:17. I turned it over. The inscription was still there, faint scratches in the silver.

*For all our tomorrows.*

I gathered the letters. Some were soaked through. Some were only spotted at the edges. My mother's handwriting bled into illegible smears. *I love you. Be brave. You are enough.*

Gone.

I sat there on the closet floor, holding pieces, and felt something crack open inside my chest that I didn't know how to close.

---

Dane found me twenty minutes later. I heard his voice in the hallway, heard Yasmin's soft, breaking responses.

"She's so upset. I feel terrible. It was completely my fault."

"I'm sure it was an accident."

"I offered to pay for repairs, but she won't even look at me."

He walked into the bedroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, the broken watch in my palm, the salvaged letters in a pile beside me.

"Ashlyn." He stopped in the doorway. "Yasmin told me what happened."

I didn't look up.

He came closer. Sat down beside me. "I know you're upset. But it was an accident. She feels awful."

"She destroyed the only things I have left of them."

"We can get the watch repaired. And the letters—"

"The letters are gone, Dane."

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. "You're not being rational right now. You're exhausted, you're on bed rest, your hormones are—"

I turned to look at him. Really look at him.

He stopped mid-sentence.

"Say that again," I said quietly.

He blinked. "I just meant—"

"Say it again. Tell me I'm irrational. Tell me it's hormones."

His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to help you see this clearly. Yasmin made a mistake. She apologized. You screaming at her isn't going to fix anything."

I looked down at the ruined letters on the floor. My mother's handwriting, bleeding into nothing.

I stood up. Picked up the watch. Picked up the letters.

Dane stood too. "Where are you going?"

I walked past him. Out of the bedroom. Down the hall.

Yasmin was in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa, her face carefully arranged into distress. She looked up when I passed. I didn't stop. Didn't speak.

I went into the guest room at the end of the hall. The one no one used. I closed the door. Locked it.

I set the watch and the letters on the dresser. Sat down on the bed. Pressed both hands to my stomach and felt the baby move, a small flutter against my ribs.

I felt nothing.

Outside the door, I heard Dane's voice. Low. Frustrated.

"Just give her time. She'll calm down."

I closed my eyes.

Counted to twelve.

Then eight.

Then nothing at all.