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“Michael?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
The nurse wrapped our baby in a blanket and brought him toward us for a moment, but Michael took a step backward.
That tiny movement frightened me more than the doctor’s words.
Later, after the baby had been taken for additional examinations, Michael finally sat beside my hospital bed.
His face looked completely different.
“We need to think about our future,” he said.
“Our future?”
He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“We’re only twenty-four. We know nothing about raising a child with special needs.”
I immediately started crying.
“He’s still our son.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
Michael looked toward the door.
Then he began listing everything that could go wrong.
Medical appointments.
Therapy.
Money.
School.
People judging us.
