I was running late. I had just received a call from another state hospital telling me a girl had just been born, and I was listed as the father. I would have discounted it as a prank, but I knew my wife was in that area for a short holiday I organized for her while I renovated our home — it was a surprise.
We had no kids of our own and had adopted three because adoption was something we both wanted to be involved in, so we needed to add more rooms to our house, which was why I was renovating. Among the two of us, I was more particular about getting a foster child because I was one myself, and I had grown up promising to take in as many kids as I could. “If I can help those kids grow up to be the best of themselves, then I feel like I’ve made a huge difference,” I told my wife while we were discussing it.
I was also father to two grown kids, whom I conceived while I was with my former wife, Ellen. We went our separate ways after she decided to cheat with our pool boy, and she was caught. I met my second wife, Mary, two years later, and after dating for several months, we got married.
We tried to have kids but were unsuccessful, and this motivated us to look into adoption, but we never stopped trying to make babies. One day, our persistence paid off, and Mary conceived a child. It was in preparation for the baby’s arrival that I decided to expand the house to include a nursery and an extra room.
After making the decision, I got Mary, who was due in two months, on a plane to a place she had always wanted to visit. But when she arrived there, she immediately went into labor and was subsequently rushed to the hospital. Unfortunately, she died during childbirth, so I was told that because the child was a newborn, it was necessary to fly out immediately.
I packed my suitcases and flew to pick up my daughter. When my plane landed, I rented a car and made my way to the hospital, where my wife had allegedly passed away. The news of her death still ate at me, but I knew there would be time to grieve later, so I focused on bringing home our biological child.
When I arrived at the hospital, I met with the volunteer at the intensive care unit, a woman who was 82 years old and recently widowed. Her name was Meredith, and she had things to tell me. “What happened?” I asked her as soon as I entered her office.
“Have a seat, young man,” she said calmly. “I’m better off standing,” I replied. “I’m sorry for your loss, but your wife suffered some complications giving birth to your child.”
At that, I cried bitterly, and Meredith quietly watched me, choosing to let me grieve.
After a few minutes, she cleared her throat and spoke. “As I understand, you have come for the child, but I have to make sure that you have what it takes to care for one,” Meredith said. I let her know that I was already a father and Meredith nodded appreciatively as if to say, “You’ll do,” but she still gave me her phone number.
“Call me if you need anything,” she said. The kind woman also offered me a ride to the airport on the day of departure. Things went on smoothly until it was time to board the plane.
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