Page 4 of Bottle Shock
“You’re having a completely normal reaction,” she says, with a calmness that makes me believe her. “This is big news. Anyone in your position would be in shock. But you’re not alone in this, okay? If the paternity test matches, you have options. If you decide to take this on, we’ll make a plan together—one step at a time.”
I drop my head, staring blankly at the scuffed tiles. “And if I choose not to?”
Rebecca takes a slow breath before she answers. “Then Lily won’t go into the system. Allison’s parents have already said they’re willing to raise her. But I’ll be honest with you—” her voice softens further “—you don’t strike me as someone who walks away easily. You’re allowed to be scared, Gavin. Every parent who leaves this hospital with a baby is scared. Scared is good. It means you care enough to worry you’ll fail.”
I lift my gaze, throat tight. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
She offers a small, reassuring smile, sympathy lighting her eyes. “No one does. Not at first. How about we start slow? You meet her, see how it feels, and then we’ll go from there. Deal?”
I don’t trust myself to speak, but I nod anyway. I wish I believed in myself as much as she seems to, but I’m willing to at least try.
Biting down on my cheek to temper the chatter of my teeth, I continue following her.
We take the elevator to the fifth floor, the NICU.
As soon as the doors slide open, different sounding alarms blare from either direction, and staff members rush off toward them.
I swallow. I don’t know a lot about medicine, but I know alarms usually mean something bad.
“This way,” Rebecca says, seemingly unaffected.
She stops outside of a room with the lights dimmed low.
Moving aside, she motions for me to enter. “Go ahead.”
I take a deep breath, trying to ward off the full-body tremor taking over. Swallowing my fears, I step inside.
In the center of the room, sits an incubator made of clear plastic with little portholes on the sides for hands to reach through, and nestled inside is a small baby in nothing but a diaper and pink knitted hat. She’s barely the size of my forearm, her tiny limbs splayed out frog-like beneath a tangle of wires. Her eyes are closed, long lashes dusting the tops of pink cheeks.
A nasal cannula is taped to her face but her chest rises and falls deeply like she’s trying so hard to take in a lungful.
And her hair—just the faintest bit of soft brown fuzz peeking out from under the hat—makes her look like a baby bear cub. Small and heartbreakingly innocent.
I stand frozen, staring at this tiny, helpless, precious baby girl. I’m completely out of my depth.
“You can touch her if you want.”
My head whips up, unaware a nurse entered the room. I glance over at Rebecca, who’s standing outside the door, silently asking if it’s okay. She nods, but remains in her spot.
The nurse, a young woman who barely looks like she’s out of high school, moves around the room efficiently, and helps me scrub in. She pulls back the plastic on the incubator and gently guides my hand inside.
Hesitantly, I reach out for her, almost afraid to touch her.
My fingertip brushes Lily’s palm.
She flinches. Then, slowly, her tiny fingers curl around mine.
My vision blurs.
Holy shit.Like a force of nature, my chest squeezes impossibly tight—and I know.
She’s mine.
DNA test or not, it doesn’t matter. It’s like my soul recognizes her. I justknowshe’s mine.
“She’s doing good today,” the nurse tells me in a quiet voice. “She’s a strong one.”
“She’s perfect,” I breathe, amazed.
