Page 12 of One Little Mistake

Erin

Waking up feels… strange. Like I’ve been transported back three years to the morning after my best friend’s birthday party—when we all swore off drinking for life and couldn’t even look at alcohol without getting queasy.

It feels like something is slowly pushing me toward consciousness, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my eyelids to open. Darkness wraps around my thoughts, pulling me back under, and I drift off again.

The second time I wake up, it’s like being hit over the head.

My eyes snap open, and I find myself staring at a yellowed ceiling.

I lie there for a few minutes, trying to stop the room from spinning, trying to focus my vision.

There’s an annoying beeping above me, and something foreign is lodged in my nose.

I try to reach for my face, but I can’t.

I’m so weak I can barely move my fingers.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

I close my eyes and open them, praying this is just a nightmare. But then I realize something terrifying—I don’t feel the baby moving.

For the past few weeks, my baby boy had been wide awake almost nonstop—kicking, twisting, keeping me up night after night. I’d grown so used to that feeling that now, the silence inside me is what feels foreign.

My trembling fingers reach for my now-flat stomach. A cold wave of panic crashes over me. He’s not there. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. My memory is blank. I try to sit up, but the room tilts, black dots dance in my vision, and a sharp ringing pierces my ears.

I fight it, but the darkness is stronger, and I think I’m blacking out again.

The third time I wake up, it feels like I’ve been asleep for days. My head is heavy, my body limp, but my mind is finally clear.

In a flash, everything from last night comes rushing back. The strange man who insisted the apartment was his. The labor.

I was scheduled for a C-section next week—my son was supposed to be born on February fourteenth, not a day earlier, and definitely not through natural delivery.

I try to sit up, to look around the room, to spot a crib—anything—to make sure he’s okay. I don’t even want to think about the alternative. Of course he’s fine. Of course he’s sleeping peacefully right now.

But I can’t lift myself. I have no strength.

My arm feels numb, especially where the IV is taped to my skin.

The best I can do is turn my head. That’s when I notice there’s another woman in the room, lying in the bed beside mine.

She’s wearing an oxygen mask. Her breathing is labored, and the steady beeping from the monitor must be tracking her heart rate.

There’s no baby. No crib. No signs that a child has ever even been in this room.

Where am I?

Where’s my baby?

What happened to him?

My breathing quickens. So does my heart rate. The monitor starts to beep louder, faster. I want to rip the cord out just to shut it up.

“Hey! Someone!” I try to yell, but all that comes out is a dry, broken rasp. My throat is sandpaper. My whole body aches. “Someone!” I manage again, through tears—but it’s barely louder than a whisper.

The panic builds. I can’t just lie here and wait for someone to show up. I need to know where my baby is. I need to see him.

I summon every last ounce of strength, push through the sharp pain in my lower abdomen, and roll onto my side.

I lie still for a moment. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just make it to the door. That’s all.

But I misjudge my strength. Instead of getting out of bed and steadying myself along the wall, I collapse straight onto the cold floor, helpless.

The IV rips from my arm.

Tears stream down my face. A soft sob escapes my throat.

“Help me...”

That’s how the nurse finds me. Crumpled on the hospital floor, whispering for help.

“Where’s my baby? What happened to him?” I grab the nurse’s wrist, trying to find an answer in her pale gray eyes.

“Let me help you back into bed. Hold on to me,” she says, completely ignoring my questions as she tries to lift me off the floor.

“Please… just tell me my baby is okay,” I croak. I can’t move, and despair is consuming me like a wave crashing over my head.

“I just got back from medical leave. I’m afraid I don’t know your case yet,” she says apologetically, and I desperately want to believe her—that the staff isn’t hiding the truth from me.

I try not to think the worst. My baby is alive. I would’ve felt it if something happened to him. That’s what they always say about a mother’s instinct, right?

“I’ll call your attending physician. He’ll explain everything,” she says. “Now come on, carefully... like that. You really shouldn’t be wandering around in your condition.” She mutters the last part under her breath as I manage to stand, barely.

With her help, I make it back into bed and lie there, heart pounding, waiting for the doctor. Every second stretches into forever. I try to remember something—anything—about the delivery. I think… the last thing I remember was a baby’s cry. High-pitched and piercing. Or did I imagine it?

The uncertainty is unbearable. I stare at the ceiling and count the seconds, trying to keep my mind from spiraling.

When a man in his forties finally walks in, I tense up immediately, bracing for bad news. I watch him closely, trying to read his face.

“Well, Miss Hale, glad to see you awake. You gave us all quite the scare. How are you feeling?” He shines a light into my eyes and asks me to follow it.

They check my blood pressure, temperature, and ask a few basic memory questions.

Then he adjusts my IV. I still don’t ask the question that’s been burning inside me.

I watch his every move, waiting. Finally, I gather the courage.

“Doctor, please…” I clear my throat and close my eyes. “My baby… is he okay?” My voice breaks, a knot tightening in my throat.

“Don’t worry. Your son is perfectly healthy. He’s in the nursery wing, just waiting for his mom to recover so she can take him home.”

I exhale, relief flooding me. My baby is alive.

“Can I see him?” I ask, hope rising in my chest.

“I’m sorry, that’s not allowed right now. The nursery is in a separate building. But maybe your husband can bring you some pictures.”

“Husband?” I let out a faint, sad laugh. “I’m not married.”

“Oh—my apologies. I assumed Max was your husband. That’s how he introduced himself.”

“Max? He’s here?” My voice trembles.

“He stopped by a few times. He seemed really worried about you.”

“Really?” I ask in disbelief.

“Visiting hours are over for today, but I’ll see if he can come by tomorrow morning. I’ll get in touch with him.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, biting my lip, grateful beyond words. “Could you… maybe bring the baby here? Or could I go see him?”

“Stay put,” he says gently. “You’re not quite ready to be up and about just yet. But if your condition keeps improving, we can definitely arrange a visit in the next day or two. After all, wheelchairs aren’t just for grandmas, right?” He gives me a wink, trying to lighten the mood.

I smile for the first time.

“Thank you.”

“Now try to get some rest.”

“Okay,” I nod.

“And please, no more solo adventures around the room. Promise?”

“I promise,” I nod again.

I wait for Max with barely contained anticipation.

I want to see him, breathe in his familiar scent, feel the taste of his lips again, and hear him talk about our son.

It still doesn’t feel real—that I spent over a week in the ICU.

That I became a mother. That Max came back. That he didn’t leave me.

Most likely, that bearded man was just messing with me. And I think I even know who put him up to such a ridiculous prank. Sounds exactly like something Max would do.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Not now, with so much racing through my mind. But at some point, I must’ve drifted off, slipping in and out of a hazy sleep.

What wakes me up is the loud creak of the door and an unfamiliar male voice.

“Just a few minutes, I promise.”

Footsteps draw near. I assume it’s a doctor, so I open my eyes, ready to greet him—to show I’m awake. But instead, I meet a pair of piercing eyes. The same ones that stunned me the first time we met.

We stare at each other in silence. Me—in surprise. Him—with something that looks like relief, like he’s glad it’s me lying here and not someone else. He stands just a step away, his gaze traveling over me and stopping at the IV line taped to my arm.

I suddenly feel exposed under his gaze. Vulnerable. I must look awful. I haven’t seen my reflection, but from the tangle of my hair, I can imagine the rest. And somehow, that bothers me. More than it should.

The first time I saw him, I was too terrified to really register his features—just the beard. But now I can’t look away from those eyes. That washed-out stormy blue, almost too vivid to be natural, especially paired with jet-black hair.

“I’m glad you made it,” he says in a low, gravelly voice before turning to the window.

He stands with his back to me, takes a deep breath, then spins around as if about to say something—but doesn’t.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Just thought I’d check if you needed anything,” he mutters. “Clothes, little stuff… oh, and I brought your phone.”

He’s clearly nervous. I can see it in the way his movements are sharp and jittery, how his eyes dart around the room, barely settling on me.

“Did Max send you?” I ask, the only logical explanation for why this man is standing here. “Where is he? Why didn’t he come himself?” I’m starting to panic, my eyes flicking toward the door.

“Your runaway fiancé hasn’t shown up,” he says with a crooked smirk. “And I doubt he will anytime soon.”

“No, you’re lying,” I snap, anger bubbling up in my chest. Why is he doing this? Why lie to me, play games like this? “The doctor said Max visited me,” I add stubbornly.

“Still remember my name?” the man mutters wearily, then pulls a chair up next to my bed and sits down, locking eyes with me again. The silence grows thick between us.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper, breaking eye contact.

“I’ve been in touch with your doctors this whole time—what’s so hard to get?” His tone sharpens, tinged with irritation. “No need to thank me. You waking up is thanks enough. One more minute and I would’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.”

My eyebrow arches, questioning him. But he says nothing more. Somehow, I can’t even bring myself to think of him as Max. That name still belongs to the father of my child.

“I don’t believe you. Why would you do this? Why help some random girl you don’t even know?” I start to feel anxious again, wishing he’d just leave and never come back. Because if everything he’s saying is true, then Max really did lie to me, sending me to a stranger’s apartment and disappearing.

“I’m asking myself the same thing,” he mutters with a shrug. “Guess there’s something about you that makes people want to help. Vivienne and Logan were ready to take your baby home, look after him until you’re back on your feet.”

Just hearing about my baby knocks the breath out of me.

“What happened? Do you know how he is?” I stare at him, heart pounding, desperate for even a few words—something, anything—that will tell me my son is okay. That he’s healthy. That I don’t have to worry.

“Your heart stopped,” he says bluntly. “But officially, they put it down as a birth complication and severe blood loss. I didn’t get all the details.

” He pauses. “The kid’s fine. Doesn’t look like you.

They tried to hand him over to me; thought I was the dad.

” He chuckles dryly, and the room falls silent again.

I relax just a little. I’m pretty sure there’s a soft, dreamy smile on my face now, because in my mind, I’m holding my baby boy in my arms. Tim. I’ll call him Tim, I decide, suddenly and firmly.

“Here’s your phone.” I blink in surprise when he pulls my smartphone out of his pocket. “Call your grandma, your friends, whoever. Let them know you’re okay. I didn’t tell anyone you were in the ICU—figured it’d just worry them. But I’m sure someone out there’s been wondering.”

“Did you talk to someone?” I ask, tension creeping into my voice. I can’t understand how he’d know about my grandma.

“Something like that,” the man says evasively, then gently places the phone in my hand. “I saved my number, just in case. Max Taylor. I changed the password, sorry—it’s all ones now. If you need anything, call me. Your stuff’s still at my place, so we’ll have to meet again anyway.”

“Thanks,” I manage to whisper, barely holding back the tears.

This Max—the one everyone thought was my husband—wasn’t my Max.

The disappointment sits heavy on my chest. I feel alone.

Abandoned. I can’t see my son, I can’t reach the guy I thought cared, and it really feels like I’ve hit rock bottom.

Although… things could’ve been worse, I guess.

The first thing I do is check the phone for missed calls, then open my messages and social media. There are a few unread messages, but none of them matter right now. I’m looking for one name. Just one.

“He still hasn’t been online,” the man says, watching me closely—like he’s reading my thoughts.

“He probably still doesn’t have reception,” I mumble, lying to myself as I set the phone aside and swallow the bitter lump of disappointment rising in my throat.