He was a tall man in his late fifties, with silver hair at his temples and a composed, distinguished aura. He had the kind of steady, experienced presence that usually reassured everyone in the room. His embroidered coat read: Dr. William Brooks, Chief of Obstetrics. Dr. Brooks picked up his clipboard, offered me a warm, professional smile, and stepped closer to the warming bassinet to glance down at my baby.
And then, everything changed.
The doctor froze. His entire body locked up as if he had been struck by an invisible current of electricity.
Sarah noticed it immediately. The color had completely drained from the doctor’s face, leaving him ashen. His hand, which had been perfectly steady a moment ago, began to shake violently, the clipboard rattling against his knuckles. His eyes—which had been warm and clinical—filled with something so raw and unexpected that it made my heart stop.
Tears.
“Doctor?” Sarah asked carefully, taking a step toward him. “William? Is everything okay?”
He didn’t respond to her. He couldn’t.
He just kept staring down at my baby. He stared at the small curve of the newborn’s nose. He traced the shape of his crying lips with his eyes. And then, his gaze locked onto a tiny, specific detail just beneath the baby’s left ear—a faint, reddish birthmark shaped exactly like a soft crescent moon.
I struggled to sit up, a wild, protective panic flaring in my chest. “What’s wrong?” I demanded, my voice shrill. “What is wrong with my baby?!”
Dr. Brooks swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He slowly lifted his eyes from the child and looked at me. When he finally spoke, his voice was cracked, shattered, and barely above a whisper.
“Miss Carter… where is the baby’s father?”
