Page 42 of The Golden Hour

Honey's beautiful skin being sliced open.

Separate the abdominal muscles, expose the uterus, and make a second incision.

Honey cut open on the table, her insides exposed.

Another incision into the womb carrying the baby for thirty-four weeks. Amniotic fluid is suctioned out; remove the baby headfirst.

Hands inside of his wife and pulling their baby out fast, so they both have a chance to live.

The neonatal team is already there, clearing Daisy's airway, getting her tiny lungs to breathe.

While his wife continues to bleed.

The detached placenta and blood clots are manually removed from the uterus. The obstetrician cleans the uterine cavity and closes the muscle and abdominal layers.

Getting the bleeding under control so Honey's blood pressure didn't seize her body first, making her bleed out on the table and⁠⁠—

He presses a hand to cover his mouth, trying to force the sob back down. A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder, grounding him. He turns to meet Phil's narrowed eyes.

"You don't get to come undone, Mason," he hisses, too low for Melissa or Dr. Weaver to hear. "Not now. It's not about you—your wife and your daughter."

Mason feels those words as much as he hears them. It's not about him. Not anymore. It's not about his guilt or his grief or his panic or his needs. It's been about his needs for the past year. No more.

This is about Honey and Daisy.

He thinks so much about how important Honey is to him, how precious she is, how much he loves her. He thinks about being a dad, how great it will be, how much fun they will have as a family. He thinks about birthday parties, family vacations, and Daisy calling him Daddy someday.

He thinks about giving Daisy siblings and a big happy home, about all the pretty things he promised Honey when they were young and certain love alone could sustain them.

Thinking is easy.

Actually doing those things—actually showing his wife and daughter how much they mean to him—that is work.

And he's learned quickly that if the work doesn't give him a rush, he wasn't interested.

Selfish, neglectful, egotistical asshole.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and nods. Something shifts in Phil's eyes, not softness, not warmth, not even support. Recognition that Mason heard him and understands.

Dr. Weaver keeps speaking, "...she'll need to stay in the NICU for observation and feeding support, possibly a few weeks, but she's a healthy size, and she was breathing on her own when they got her out."

"And Honey?" Melissa asks quickly, pulling back from Phil's chest. "How's my daughter?"

"They are working as hard as they can to stop the bleeding," Dr. Weaver says carefully. "She lost a lot of blood, and they're replacing it. Dr. Farah is a senior resident. She's incredibly competent, and she is not alone in that room. Anesthesia, neonatal, surgical staff—everyone is with her."

"I'm not doubting her competence," Melissa snaps. "I'm doubting the competence of Honey's doctor. And this hospital's administration. How the fuck does an OB/GYN doctor—a celebrated one, you all liked to remind us—miss preeclampsia?"

Dr. Weaver looks right at Melissa Hayes's enraged face.

This isn't the first time Mason has seen her have to be this firm with family. It's a difficult position to be in, telling your patient's family that they are doing everything possible while still not telling them too much, giving them enough truth to keep them informed but not enough terror to make them break.

And really, they are working tirelessly to save Honey and Daisy. He knows that. He knows the people in that room are fighting like hell for his wife and his daughter, not one or the other.

But now Mason is on the other side. It is his wife and daughter in that room, their lives hanging in the air, and he feels like absolute shit because he recognizes the rhythm of this. The careful even voice and expression. The technical terms chosen carefully. The right inflections in the right places, empathy delivered with practice, not sincerity.

He feels sick because Dr. Weaver is doing the same thing he has done a hundred times, and now he can see through it. See what he was doing to patients' families. All of their faces flash in his mind, scared out of their minds, and how he saw them as nothing more than a roadblock to his next patient.

He presses a hand to his stomach, the bile rising in his throat.