“You wanted to keep her. She’s your responsibility and your problem.”
Those were the words my ex-husband, Eric, used when I called him about our newborn daughter.
Our baby was struggling to breathe.
I was recovering from an emergency C-section.
Our savings were gone.
And the man who was supposed to be her father had decided that none of it was his concern.
But I had no idea that the person who would finally stand up for my daughter would be the last person I expected.
Eric’s mother.
Barbara.
For weeks before Chloe was born, my marriage had been falling apart.
Eric had left me for another woman.
He packed two suitcases, drained our joint savings and walked out of our kitchen without looking back.
He told me the pregnancy had become a burden.
He said he deserved another chance at happiness.
Then he left.
I was still trying to process what had happened when the pregnancy became even more difficult.
The stress, fear and complications took a serious toll on me.
Doctors eventually decided that they could not safely wait any longer.
At 34 weeks, I was rushed into an emergency C-section.
Our daughter, Chloe, entered the world earlier than expected.
Instead of holding her in my arms and taking her home, I watched her spend her first days beneath the bright lights of the neonatal intensive care unit.
There were machines.
Monitors.
Medication.
Breathing support.
Every sound made my heart jump.
I remember standing beside her tiny bed and wondering how I was supposed to do all of this alone.
Eventually, Chloe was strong enough to come home.
But coming home did not mean everything was suddenly fine.
She still needed breathing treatments and medication.
My insurance covered some of the costs, but not nearly enough.
Maternity leave had begun.
Bills were piling up.
The money Eric had taken from our joint savings was gone.
I started cutting every expense I could.
I sold jewelry.
I canceled subscriptions.
I postponed bills whenever I could.
I stopped buying anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Then one afternoon, I stood at a pharmacy counter holding Chloe’s prescription.
The pharmacist gave me the total.
I stared at the number.
I simply didn’t have enough.
I walked outside with the prescription still in my hand and sat in my car.
I looked at Chloe’s photo on my phone.
Then I called Eric.
“Please,” I said when he answered. “You took our savings. She needs her father.”
He sighed.
Not angrily.
Not sadly.
Almost as though I had interrupted him during dinner.
“You wanted her,” he said. “She’s your responsibility and your problem.”
I closed my eyes.
“She’s your daughter too.”
He didn’t answer.
Then he said, “Ask someone who cares. Definitely not me.”
The call ended.
I sat there for several minutes.
Then I made a decision.
Maybe seeing Chloe would change something in him.
Maybe looking into his own daughter’s face would remind him that she wasn’t a problem.
She was a person.
His child.
So I drove to the house where Eric was living with his new girlfriend, Tessa.
Chloe was in her carrier beside me.
Every step up the porch seemed to pull at my healing incision, but I kept going.
I knocked.
The door opened.
Tessa was standing there wearing one of Eric’s shirts.
She looked at me, then at the baby carrier.
Her expression immediately changed.
“Oh,” she said. “Eric, your baby mama is here looking for another handout.”
I ignored her.
“Please,” I said. “Just look at your daughter.”
Eric appeared behind her.
I held the carrier slightly toward him.
“I’m not asking for money for myself. Chloe needs her treatment. I just need help paying for her medicine.”
Eric glanced at the carrier.
Then he looked away.
“I have a life now.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“Stop showing up with your little brat.”
Tessa laughed.
Then they shut the door.
I stood on that porch for several seconds.
I don’t remember walking back to my car.
By the time I got home, I had cried until there were no tears left.
I put Chloe down, sat beside her and wondered where I could possibly turn next.
