Page 50 of Glass Wings

He rests his hand gently on the glass, as if touching it could somehow bridge the space between us. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. She’s mine, ours, and yet she feels so far away, more machine than baby, like something I dreamed instead of carried for eight months.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, hot tears spilling over. “She needs someone stronger. Not me.”

Easton crouches in front of me again, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are fierce, desperate and unflinching. “Don’t you say that. You made her. You carried her. And she’s fighting right now because of you. She needs her mom, Harley. She needs you.”

But I can’t look at her again. The wires, the machines, the rise and fall of her fragile chest … it hollows me out. I turn my face into my hands and weep.

Easton stays kneeling, one hand on my knee while the other presses against the glass where our daughter lies, fighting for every breath.

I blame myself.

For the stress. For the trial. For pushing my body too far. For saying yes the night before when I should’ve said no. If I was stronger, calmer, smarter, if I was anyone other than me, maybe my baby would be in my arms instead of behind glass.

Easton wheels me back to my room after the visit, but I still feel hollow, like I left every ounce of strength in that glass box with my daughter.

She isn’t in my arms. She isn’t pressed against my chest. She’s surrounded by wires and plastic, a machine counting her breaths because I wasn’t enough.

I lie back in the bed, staring at the ceiling tiles until they blur. Easton sits in the chair from before, and neither of us move when a nurse comes in with a small kit.

“Harley,” she says gently, placing it on the tray table beside me. “We’ll want to start expressing colostrum. Just a few drops can make a big difference for preemies.”

My mouth dries. “Colostrum?”

“Yes, your first milk,” she explains, her smile soft, practiced. “It’s thick and golden, packed with antibodies. Even if she can’t nurse yet, we can collect it and feed it to her in the NICU. It’ll help her fight infection.”

I stare at the kit, at the tiny sterile syringes lined up like something out of a lab. “I don’t … I don’t think I can.”

The nurse tilts her head. “It might be uncomfortable at first, but we can help⁠—”

“I said I can’t.” My voice cracks sharp, too sharp, and Easton flinches in his chair. The nurse hesitates, then nods. She sets the kit aside without a word.

When the door closes behind her, silence spreads again.

Easton reaches for my hand. “Baby, she’s just trying to help.”

I pull my hand back, staring at the wall. “She needs more than a few drops of milk. She needs a better mom than me.”

“Don’t.” His voice is low, breaking. “Don’t say that.”

But the words won’t stop. They keep spilling out, raw and jagged. “If I’d been stronger, if I’d eaten more, if I hadn’t been so stressed, I wouldn’t have gone into labor early. She wouldn’t be in there, hooked up to machines. It’s my fault, Easton. All of it.”

He’s out of his chair in a heartbeat, kneeling by the bed. His hands grip mine so tight it almost hurts. His eyes shine, fierce and broken all at once. “No. Stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault. You fought for her every day she was inside you. And you’re going to keep fighting now. For her. For us.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to. But all I feel is empty.

When he presses my hand to his chest, steady heartbeat under my palm, I can’t bring myself to look at him.

I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve either of them.

Easton doesn’t push right away. He sits with me, holding my hand until the silence stretches on for too long. Until it becomes unbearable. Then he speaks softly, like he’s coaxing me back from the edge.

“Harley … will you try again? For her?”

I shake my head, tears already burning my eyes. “I can’t. I don’t even feel like her mom. What if nothing comes out? What if my body fails her again?”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Then we keep trying. Or we find another way. But please, don’t give up before you’ve even started. She needs you. I need you.”

The weight of his words presses down on me. I hate myself for hesitating, for wanting to crawl further into this hollow hole where nothing hurts. But the way he looks at me like I’m the only one who can save him, save her … it breaks my heart.