Chapter 3 - Two Pounds, Nine Ounces of Heartbreak
The air in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit smelled of rubbing alcohol and sterile plastic.
It was a room where time stood still, where every breath was a calculated victory.
Dr. Rios was standing beside an incubator in the far corner, her face tight with concentration.
I approached the plastic box slowly, feeling like an intruder in my own life.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.
He was impossibly small.
His skin was translucent, stretched tight over fragile, bird-like bones.
Tubes and wires covered almost every inch of his tiny body, monitoring a heart that beat entirely too fast.
A CPAP machine covered his face, forcing air into undeveloped lungs.
“He’s fighting,” Dr. Rios said softly, noticing my arrival. “But his lungs are very premature. He’s struggling to oxygenate.”
I placed a trembling hand against the hard plastic of the incubator.
My son.
Six months ago, he was a secret. An hour ago, he was a shock.
Now, he was my entire world.
“Can he hear me?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“Hearing is fully developed by this stage,” Dr. Rios nodded. “Talk to him. He needs to know he’s not alone.”
I leaned down until my forehead touched the warm plastic.
“Hey, little man,” I whispered, fighting the tears that burned my eyes. “It’s your dad.”
His tiny chest rose and fell in rapid, mechanical stutters.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I choked out. “I didn’t know. If I had known, I would have been there for every ultrasound. I would have been there for your mom.”
He didn't move, but the monitor showed a slight, steady rhythm to his fragile heartbeat.
“You have to fight,” I told him, making the first real promise of my fatherhood. “You fight, and I promise you, I will fix everything else.”
I stood there for an hour, watching the monitors, memorizing the shape of his tiny hands.
I realized then what an absolute fool I had been.
I had spent five years chasing wealth, building towers of glass and steel, convinced that providing a massive bank account was the same as providing love.
Maya had begged for my presence, and I had given her my credit card.
Maya had asked for a partner, and I had given her an empty penthouse.
And in the end, my obsession with the company had allowed a rogue assistant to delete my chance at being a father from the start.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text from Victor Hale: The investors walked. You just blew a $60M deal. Where the hell are you?
I stared at the text.
The old Caleb would have panicked, would have called Victor immediately to smooth things over, to grovel, to salvage the money.
The new Caleb deleted the text without replying.
I looked back at my son, breathing through a machine.
“What did your mom name you?” I whispered to the glass.
Dr. Rios checked her chart. “She listed him as Leo. Leo Lawson.”
Leo. A lion.
“Hold on, Leo,” I said, stepping back from the incubator. “Your dad has some trash to take out.”
May you like
I left the NICU, the cold rage returning to my veins.
It was time to pay Darla Whitcomb a visit.
