Chapter 10
I wiped my eyes.
"Yes," I whispered.
Then louder:
"Yes. I want to do it."
My daughter arrived eleven days early.
At 3:17 on a Thursday morning, after a long night at the hospital, I heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
Her first cry.
The nurse placed her against my chest.
She was tiny.
Warm.
Perfect.
Her little fingers curled around mine.
And just like that, the world became different.
Grace stood beside my bed, crying openly.
Daniel waited outside with Mr. Harlan, who had somehow arrived carrying an enormous stuffed giraffe.
I looked down at my daughter.
"Hello, sweetheart."
She opened her eyes for a moment.
I laughed through my tears.
"You have your grandfather's stubborn little face."
Grace squeezed my shoulder.
"What are you going to name her?"
I had known for weeks.
"Elizabeth Rose."
Elizabeth for my mother.
Rose for the flowers my father planted every spring beside our kitchen window.
Grace smiled.
"It's beautiful."
I kissed my daughter's forehead.
"Elizabeth Rose Whitmore Bennett," I whispered.
Then I paused.
The name wasn't the important part.
The love was.
And I promised her something.
"You will never have to earn your worth from anyone."
Caleb learned about Elizabeth's birth through our attorneys.
He requested a visit.
After consulting my lawyer and the hospital staff, I agreed to a brief, supervised meeting when I was ready.
I did not want my anger to decide every part of my daughter's future.
But I also refused to pretend nothing had happened.
When Caleb entered the hospital room, he looked different.
Not physically.
Something in his posture had changed.
The confidence was gone.
He stood near the doorway, staring at the baby in my arms.
"She's beautiful," he whispered.
I nodded.
"She is."
He approached slowly.
"Can I see her?"
I adjusted the blanket.
He looked down at Elizabeth.
For a moment, his face crumpled.
"She has your eyes."
I didn't answer.
He swallowed.
"Eleanor, I..."
His voice broke.
"I'm sorry."
I had imagined those words a hundred times.
I'd imagined feeling victorious.
Relieved.
Vindicated.
Instead, I felt sad.
Because an apology could not give me back the marriage I thought I'd had.
It could not erase what he'd said beside my father's coffin.
And it could not make him trustworthy overnight.
"Thank you for saying that," I replied.
He looked at me hopefully.
"Does that mean—"
"No, Caleb."
His expression fell.