Because my brain refused to believe what I was hearing.
“I just gave birth.”
He shrugged.
“That doesn’t change the seats.”
Chapter 3: The Car I Helped Buy
The absurdity hit me all at once.
That car existed because of me.
When my father died, I sold his lake house. Part of the money went into savings. Part paid bills. And part went toward the vehicle Logan insisted our growing family needed
For months, he had obsessed over it.
He researched leather conditioners.
Compared luxury packages.
Spent more time reading car forums than helping assemble the crib.
Standing there outside the hospital, holding our newborn daughter, I suddenly saw everything differently.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I paid too much for this car,” he replied.
I stared at him.
My body hurt everywhere.
My daughter weighed barely seven pounds.
And somehow, she was still more important to me than those seats could ever be.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.
Logan looked at me as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Call a cab.”
Chapter 4: The Man Who Drove Away
The words landed like a slap.
“You want me to take our newborn home in a taxi because you’re worried about the car?”
Logan’s face tightened with irritation.
“My seats cost more than your entire wardrobe,” he said. “I’m not ruining them on day one.”
I looked at him, waiting for common sense to return.
It did not.
“Logan,” I whispered.
He opened the driver’s door.
Then he got inside.
I stood frozen.
Surely he was not actually leaving.
Surely nobody could be this selfish.
The engine started.
And then he drove away.
I watched his taillights disappear while I stood outside the hospital, weak, humiliated, and holding our daughter in my arms.
A nurse walked outside moments later.
She took one look at my face and immediately knew something was wrong.
“Honey,” she asked gently, “where’s your ride?”
That was all it took.
Chapter 5: The Taxi
The tears came instantly.
Huge, uncontrollable sobs.
The kind that start somewhere deep and rip their way out before you can stop them.
The nurse led me back inside.
She sat me down.
Got me water.
Asked if she should call my mother, a friend, a social worker — anyone.
I shook my head.
I was too exhausted to explain how humiliating it felt.
Eventually, she called a taxi herself.
Then she helped secure the infant carrier because my hands were trembling too badly to manage it.
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“You okay, ma’am?”
“No.”
That single word triggered another wave of tears.
