The sun hung low over Willow Creek, Ohio, casting golden rays across the cornfields that stretched beyond the town’s modest skyline. Main Street buzzed quietly, its neon-lit diner and hardware store anchoring a community where everyone knew each other’s pickup trucks by sight. In this small town, Ethan Brooks had built a life—one he’d always hoped would include a son. At 38, with a weathered face and hands toughened by years of gripping a steering wheel, Ethan had dreamed of a boy to share his love of engines, to teach how to throw a spiral pass in the backyard. Now, standing in the stark, antiseptic hallway of Willow Creek General Hospital, that dream felt like a cruel twist of fate.
A young nurse, her scrubs slightly wrinkled from a long shift, approached Ethan with a bundle wrapped in a soft blue blanket, tied with a matching ribbon. Her name tag read “Katie,” and her eyes avoided his, focusing instead on the linoleum floor. She handed him the baby with careful hands, as if passing over something fragile and sacred. Normally, Katie would’ve smiled, offering hearty congratulations to a new father, but today, words stuck in her throat. The air was heavy with unspoken grief, and she wished Ethan would take the child and leave, sparing her the discomfort of standing in this moment.
Ethan didn’t budge. He cradled his newborn son, the weight of the tiny body grounding him against the storm raging in his chest. A single tear glistened in the corner of his eye, catching the fluorescent light. He glanced down the empty hallway, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see his wife, Sarah, round the corner with her warm smile, ready to take their boy home. But Sarah wasn’t coming. Katie knew it, her silence a shield against the truth. Ethan knew it too, though his heart refused to accept it. The doctors had sat him down hours earlier, their voices clinical yet strained, explaining the complications during childbirth. Sarah’s heart had stopped on the operating table. They’d tried everything—defibrillators, adrenaline, desperate hands pressing her chest—but she was gone.
- “Your son’s healthy, though,” Dr. Larson had said, adjusting his glasses. “A strong, eight-pound boy. He’s perfect.”
The words were meant to soften the blow, but they landed like stones. Ethan tightened his grip on the baby, the flannel blanket brushing against his rough fingers. The newborn squirmed, letting out a soft, kitten-like whimper that pierced the silence. Ethan blinked, snapping back to the present. He had to move, had to leave this hallway that smelled of antiseptic and loss. Katie shifted her weight, her sneakers squeaking faintly. She wasn’t to blame—no one was, not really—but Ethan couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him. He’d wanted this child so badly, had pushed Sarah to carry their third when she’d begged to stop at two. She was tired, worn thin by years of parenting alone while he was on the road. And now, she was gone.
- “Thanks,” Ethan muttered to Katie, his voice gravelly. He turned toward the exit, the baby nestled against his chest.
- “Take care, Mr. Brooks,” Katie replied softly, finally meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment.
Ethan nodded, unable to muster more. He stepped into the crisp October air, the hospital doors hissing shut behind him. Willow Creek stretched out before him, its familiar streets now alien under the weight of his loss. His Ford F-150 sat in the parking lot, its bed littered with empty coffee cups from long hauls. He secured the baby—his son, who didn’t yet have a name—in the car seat he’d installed just weeks ago, when hope still burned bright. The drive home was a blur, the radio off, the only sound the faint cooing of the infant in the back.
Ethan had been a long-haul trucker for over a decade, crisscrossing the Midwest with loads of auto parts, grain, or whatever else needed moving. The pay was solid—better than most in Willow Creek—and he’d earned a reputation as a reliable driver, always on time, never complaining. He and Sarah had built a good life: a two-story house on Oak Street with a wraparound porch, a big backyard where their daughters, Mia and Ava, chased fireflies on summer nights. Mia was seven, all pigtails and curiosity, while Ava, five, had her mother’s hazel eyes and a stubborn streak. They’d never wanted for much. Ethan made sure of that, squirreling away savings for college funds and family vacations they never quite took.