Forgotten Vows

Chapter 6 – A Hidden Past and an Unknown Father

The scream from the alley never truly left Emerie. It lingered in her nightmares and in the way her body still tensed at sudden sounds.

Her thoughts snapped back to the present—to the bright hospital corridor, to Emma's chart in her hands, to the one thing she couldn't afford to lose. And then she saw them.

Jonathan and Linda.

Hatred flared. They had ruined her life. For a heartbeat she wanted to step out, tear into them with her nails, make them feel even a fraction of her pain.

Then fear clamped down. Fear of their eyes, their voices, their power to wound her again. Emerie swallowed hard, pressed herself into the shadow by the wall, and let them pass.

She had survived. She didn't want any connection with them anymore.

Only when their footsteps faded did she move, finish the admission paperwork in a blur, and head for Room 507.

At room 507, she paused, drew in a breath, and pushed open the door.

Emma lay propped against the pillows, hair fluffed into soft tangles, a stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm. Pale cheeks, wide eyes, fingers curled around the blanket—still her brave, sweet girl.

“Mommy!" Emma chirped, reaching out both hands. “You came back."

Emerie crossed the room in two steps. The moment Emma's arms looped around her neck, the tight knot in Emerie's chest loosened. She kissed the top of Emma's head, breathing in the familiar scent of shampoo mixed with antiseptic.

“Of course I did," Emerie whispered. “I only stepped out to sign a few forms. I'll always come back to you."

Emma pressed her cheek to Emerie's shoulder. “I thought maybe you went home."

“I wouldn't leave you," Emerie said, holding her close. She made her voice steady because Emma needed steadiness more than anything. “Not now. Not ever. We're going to get through this together."

She sat on the edge of the bed and gathered Emma gently into her lap. The IV line tugged gently at the girl's hand; Emerie adjusted it so it wouldn't pull.

“Did the doctor say I can go outside?" Emma asked. “I want to see the playground."

“Not yet," Emerie said. “You need to stay here for a while so the doctors can take care of your heart."

“And the special doctor?" Emma asked. “The one from the other country?"

“He's coming soon," Emerie said softly. “The hospital called him. He promised to come back and help you."

Emma tilted her head. “Is he nice?"

“I think so," Emerie replied. “Nice and very smart. The kind of doctor who doesn't give up."

Emma seemed to think about that. “Then I'll try not to cry," she said. “I don't want to make his job hard."

A laugh rose in Emerie's throat and broke into a sigh. “You being brave makes everything easier," she said. “For him. For me. For everyone."

Emma touched her cheek. “Your eyes are red. Did someone bully you?"

“No," Emerie said quickly. “No one bullied me."

“Then why do you look sad?" Emma persisted.

“Because I love you," Emerie said. “When someone you love is sick, it hurts here." She pressed a hand to her chest.

Emma frowned. “Then you should see a doctor too."

“I'll be fine once you're better," Emerie replied, kissing her forehead. “That's the only medicine I need."

Emma leaned back against the pillows. “Mommy?"

“Mm?"

“When I get better… can I have a daddy too?"

The question pierced through her. Emerie forced her face to stay calm.

“Why do you ask that?" she said gently.

“In cartoons," Emma said, “when kids are sick, both parents come to the hospital. The daddy brings flowers and the mommy brings soup. I only have you."

“You have the best part already," Emerie said in a light tone. “You have me."

Emma didn't smile. “But other kids at school have daddies. They say their daddies pick them up and put them on their shoulders. I want to know what that feels like."

Emerie's throat closed. She looked at the small IV taped to Emma's hand, at the tiny fingers that clenched the blanket.

She didn't know who Emma's father was.

After the assault, she had moved through the days like a ghost. Weeks later came the nausea, then the test—two bright lines she couldn't explain away.

If the timing was right, the father could have been the man in the alley.

If the timing was right, it could have been Jonathan.

She had considered ending the pregnancy. The doctor had said she was early enough, the decision still hers. But at night, with one hand over her stomach, she kept returning to the same truth: the baby had done nothing wrong.

So she left the city with one suitcase and a secret, and she chose to keep that tiny life.

Now, looking at Emma's small, expectant face, she felt only one thing: gratitude.

“Mommy?" Emma asked again, tugging her sleeve. “Can I have a daddy?"

“One day," Emerie said softly, “you'll have all the love you deserve. I promise."

“That's not an answer," Emma muttered, pouting.

Emerie smiled despite the ache. “Right now, we have to focus on your surgery. When you're running around outside, we'll talk about this again, okay?"

Emma considered, then nodded. “Okay. But I want my daddy to be handsome."

“I'll keep that in mind," Emerie said.

A nurse came in to check the IV and adjust the monitor. She smiled at Emma. “You're looking better already."

“That's because my mommy is here," Emma said.

The nurse's eyes softened. “You're lucky to have her."

“Actually, I'm the lucky one," Emerie said quietly.

After Emma drifted off to sleep, clutching the edge of her blanket, Emerie smoothed the girl's hair, adjusted the sheets, and left the small lamp glowing.

In the hallway she checked in with the nurse about medication times and visiting rules, then left her number twice—once at the desk, once on the chart—as if extra ink could keep Emma safe.

Then she headed for the exit. Outside, the city was already dark; the glass doors reflected her tired face back at her.

Her rented apartment was small and old, in a neighborhood far from where she grew up. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and cooking oil. The rent was cheap, and no one asked questions.

She climbed the stairs slowly, feet heavy. With the job starting tomorrow and Emma in the hospital, she needed every hour of sleep she could get.

At her door, she fumbled in her bag for the key.

“Where are you, stupid thing," she muttered.

Her fingers brushed the metal. She pulled the key ring out and reached toward the lock.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision.

Before she could turn, a hand shot out from beside the doorway and grabbed her arm hard.

Every muscle in her body seized. The hallway blurred into another place, another night, another grip dragging her backward.

Her mind snapped to the alley—the smell of alcohol, the rough voice, the helpless terror.

“No!" she screamed, the sound tearing out of her. “Let go! Let go of me!"