Chapter 3 - THE FIRST MORNING WITHOUT SCREAMING
Leo survived the night.
The next morning, the hospital's neonatal team completed another assessment. They reviewed his medical records, repeated examinations, and began a carefully supervised feeding plan.
Hannah agreed to be screened as a potential milk donor and to discuss direct breastfeeding with the clinicians.
She was given privacy.
A physician explained the health considerations.
A lactation consultant discussed her comfort, boundaries, and options.
A counselor asked whether feeding Leo might intensify her grief.
Hannah listened to all of them.
Then she asked one question.
“If I help him, can I stop whenever I need to?”
The consultant nodded.
“Absolutely.”
Hannah looked relieved.
I stood outside the consultation room.
For once, I understood that my money could arrange access to specialists but could not purchase someone's consent.
That afternoon, the medical team permitted another closely supervised feeding.
Leo latched.
Not perfectly.
He tired quickly.
But he fed.
The staff monitored him and continued supplementary nutrition as needed.
Dr. Bennett smiled for the first time in days.
“It's progress.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“Will he live?”
The doctor looked at me.
“I can't promise you that yet.”
I nodded.
He continued.
“But today gives us more reason for optimism than yesterday.”
I looked through the nursery window.
Hannah sat in a chair holding Leo.
She wasn't smiling.
She was watching him with an expression I couldn't understand.
Love.
Grief.
Fear.
All tangled together.
When she finished, I entered.
“How is he?”
“Sleepy.”
I looked at Leo.
His tiny mouth moved.
Hannah smiled faintly.
“He makes the same face Lily used to make.”
Then her smile disappeared.
I sat beside her.
“You can talk about her.”
She looked up.
“Most people don't want me to.”
“Why?”
“They get uncomfortable.”
I looked at my son.
“People get uncomfortable around grief because they can't fix it.”
Hannah nodded.
I hesitated.
“Tell me about Lily.”
She stared.
Then slowly, she began.
Lily had been born with dark hair.
She had one tiny dimple in her chin.
Hannah had chosen her name because lilies were her mother's favorite flowers.
“She had my nose,” Hannah whispered.
I smiled sadly.
“Sophia used to say Leo would have mine.”
“Does he?”
I looked at my son.
“Unfortunately.”
Hannah laughed.
It was a small sound.
But it filled the room.
For the first time since the explosion, I felt something other than rage.
Not happiness.
Not yet.
May you like
Something quieter.
The possibility that grief did not have to be carried alone.
