Chapter 5 - THE OTHER BABY’S MOTHER
Rachel asked to meet me.
The hospital discouraged it initially.
Not because we had anything to hide.
Because both of us were medically vulnerable and emotionally explosive.
Rachel insisted.
So did I.
We met in a family consultation room.
Two wheelchairs.
Two nurses.
One hospital social worker.
No babies.
Rachel looked pale from blood loss.
Her hair was tied badly.
Her hands trembled.
The first thing she said:
“Did you know?”
I stared.
“Know what?”
“That your husband had my baby.”
“No.”
“Did you hold her?”
“Yes.”
She started crying.
I said:
“I’m sorry.”
Her face hardened.
“Don’t.”
I stopped.
She was allowed to hate me for five minutes even if I had done nothing intentionally.
Then:
“My mom says your husband was walking around our floor all morning.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Why would he take Nora?”
“I think because our daughter has clubfoot.”
Rachel stared.
“That’s it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You think he stole my baby because her feet are straight?”
When she said it like that, the horror sounded too stupid to be real.
“I think something about Leonie’s foot disturbed him.”
Rachel laughed once through tears.
“My husband missed the birth because the Army couldn’t get him home fast enough, and your husband had his own baby right there.”
I had no answer.
Then she said:
“Did you think Nora was yours?”
“For a few hours.”
“Did you feed her?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“Breast milk once. Formula once when I was sleeping.”
Rachel covered her face.
I felt panic.
Had I harmed Nora?
The pediatrician later explained:
No.
Breast milk from a screened postpartum patient was not automatically dangerous, but exposure would be documented.
Rachel had a right to know.
The hospital apologized.
Then Rachel said something cruel.
“Maybe you wanted a perfect baby too.”
I stood so fast my nurse caught my arm.
“No.”
The room changed.
Rachel immediately looked ashamed.
I was furious.
Then I made it worse.
“You think I asked your husband where he was while you were bleeding?”
Silence.
A social worker stepped between words before they became something larger.
“Both of you have been harmed by the same event.”
I hated that sentence.
It sounded therapeutic.
It was true.
Rachel looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
I sat.
“So am I.”
Not forgiveness.
Not friendship.
Two mothers waiting for DNA.
Before we left, Rachel said:
“If the baby with you is Nora, tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Does she hate being swaddled?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
Rachel started crying again.
“She kicks out.”
I nodded.
The baby in my room had kicked loose every blanket.
Rachel’s daughter.
Probably.
Then:
“Leonie likes her hands near her face?”
I asked.
Rachel looked confused.
“I don’t know.”
Right.
She had barely seen the other baby.
May you like
We stopped.
No mother should have to identify her newborn through guesses because one adult decided babies could be exchanged.
