“Tell my baby girl. Tell her Mommy fought so hard to meet her. Tell her I loved her more than anything. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”
Patricia nodded, tears streaming down her face, phone still recording.
“Andrew,” Samantha’s voice was fading. “I love you. I loved you so much. Why wasn’t I enough?”
Andrew didn’t answer. He was staring at the floor.
“Please love our daughter,” Samantha whispered. “Please don’t let her forget me.”
The machines went from beeping to one long, endless scream.
The doctor called time of death at 3:47 a.m.
And Andrew’s first words after his wife died were:
“Is the baby healthy? Can we take her to the nursery?”
Jennifer touched his arm.
“Andrew, we should go. This is… this is too much.”
Their footsteps echoed as they walked out together.
Behind them, doctors tried to revive a woman who was already gone.
And in the corner, Nurse Patricia stood with a phone in her trembling hands, staring at a recording that would someday burn down a family built on ashes and lies.
The funeral happened six days later.
Small. Quiet. Almost like Andrew wanted it to disappear.
Samantha’s parents, George and Linda, drove fourteen hours from Montana.
They arrived to find the service already planned, the casket already closed, and their son-in-law making all the decisions about their daughter’s body like they didn’t exist.
“We want to see her,” Linda said, her voice breaking. “We need to see our baby.”
Andrew shook his head.
“The accident during delivery… it’s better you remember her the way she was.”
Trust him.
There was no accident.
