Cradle of Lies

Andrea

Maya’s back hurt. That was the only coherent thought she could hold onto as another contraction rolled through her body like a wave trying to pull her under.

“You’re doing great, sweetie. Just breathe through it.” The nurse—Dorothy, her name tag said—had kind eyes and a calm voice that made Maya feel slightly less like she was dying.

“I can’t do this.” Maya heard the words come out of her mouth, high and panicked. “I can’t. I changed my mind.”

Dorothy smiled and squeezed her hand. “Little late for that, honey. This baby’s coming whether you’re ready or not.”

Maya wanted to laugh but another contraction hit and all she could do was grip the bed rail and try to remember how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like the YouTube videos she’d watched at two in the morning when she couldn’t sleep, when the reality of what was happening to her body felt too big to comprehend.

She was nineteen years old and completely alone and about to become someone’s mother.

“Where’s your family?” Dorothy asked gently, checking the monitor that was tracking the baby’s heartbeat. “Your mom? The baby’s father?”

“No family.” Maya’s voice cracked. “And he—he didn’t want anything to do with it. With her.”

With us, she almost said. But there was no “us” anymore. There was just Maya and this baby she hadn’t planned for and had no idea how to take care of.

“Well, you’ve got me,” Dorothy said. “And you’re stronger than you think. I’ve seen plenty of women do this alone. You’re going to be just fine.”

Maya wanted to believe her. Wanted to feel that strength Dorothy seemed so sure she had. But all she felt was scared and exhausted and so, so young.

The contractions kept coming, each one stronger than the last. Dorothy talked her through them, her voice steady and reassuring. Hours blurred together—pain and pressure and the constant beeping of monitors. At some point, Dorothy’s shift must have changed because there was a different nurse, but Maya barely registered the change. Everything had narrowed down to her body and what it was doing and the terrifying knowledge that soon there would be a whole human person who needed her.

“Alright, Maya.” The doctor—she couldn’t remember his name—positioned himself at the end of the bed. “You’re fully dilated. Next contraction, I need you to push.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Your body knows. Just listen to it.”

And somehow, impossibly, her body did know. When the next contraction came, she bore down and pushed with everything she had. Again and again, until she was screaming and crying and sure she was going to die right there in that hospital bed.

“I can see the head! You’re almost there, Maya. One more big push.”

One more. She could do one more.

Maya pushed with the last bit of strength she had left, and suddenly there was a sound—a cry, small and indignant, filling the room.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said, and then there was a baby on Maya’s chest, all warm and slippery and impossibly tiny.

Maya stared down at her daughter and felt her entire world shift and resettle into a new shape.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

The baby—her daughter—had stopped crying and was making small snuffling sounds against Maya’s hospital gown. Maya touched her head carefully, feeling the dark hair matted with fluid, the tiny perfect ears, the miniature fingers already trying to curl around Maya’s thumb.

“She’s beautiful,” the nurse said from somewhere nearby. Maya had forgotten anyone else was in the room. “What are you going to name her?”

“Andrea.” Maya had chosen the name months ago, after her grandmother. “Andrea Rose Martinez.”

“That’s beautiful. Hi, Andrea.” The nurse was doing something—cleaning the baby, maybe, or checking her, but Maya couldn’t focus on anything except this small person against her chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” Maya said quietly. “I don’t know how to be a mom.”

“Nobody does at first. You figure it out as you go.” The nurse’s voice was gentle. “But right now, all you need to do is hold her. That’s enough.”

Maya held her daughter and felt tears sliding down her face. She’d been so scared for so long—scared of labor, scared of becoming a mother, scared of doing everything wrong. But looking at Andrea’s tiny face, feeling her warmth, hearing her breathe—maybe it would be okay. Maybe she could do this.

They took Andrea away after a few minutes to clean her properly, weigh her, do all the tests they needed to do. Seven pounds, eight ounces. Nineteen inches long. Perfect, they kept saying. Everything looked perfect.

Maya watched them work, her arms feeling empty without the weight of her daughter. She was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted—but also wired with adrenaline. She’d done it. She’d actually done it.

“Alright, mama,” a new nurse said—blonde hair, kind smile. “You need to rest. We’re going to take Andrea to the nursery so you can sleep, okay? We’ll bring her back in a few hours for feeding.”

“Okay.” Maya’s eyelids were already drooping. She hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.

The blonde nurse closed the curtain around Maya’s bed, giving her privacy. Maya heard the soft squeak of wheels as they moved Andrea’s bassinet toward the door, then the quiet click of the door closing.

She should sleep. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. But every time she started to drift off, her mind would jolt awake with a new worry. What if Andrea was crying and needed her? What if something was wrong? What if Maya had already failed as a mother by letting them take her away?

Eventually, exhaustion won. Maya fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she woke, sunlight was streaming through the window. She blinked groggily, trying to orient herself. Morning. It was morning. She’d slept for—how long?

And Andrea. Where was Andrea?

Maya pressed the call button for the nurse, her heart starting to race. They said they’d bring her back in a few hours for feeding. That had been—what time had it been? Eleven at night, maybe? Midnight? It was morning now, which meant—

A nurse appeared in the doorway. Not Dorothy or the blonde one from before. Someone new.

“Good morning! How are you feeling?”

“Where’s my baby?” Maya tried to sit up, wincing at the soreness in her body. “They said they’d bring her back for feeding.”

“Let me check on that for you.” The nurse smiled and disappeared.

Maya waited, anxiety building in her chest. Something felt wrong. They should have brought Andrea back by now. She’d been gone all night.

The nurse returned, but this time she wasn’t alone. There was a man with her—older, with a serious expression. He was wearing a badge.

Maya’s stomach dropped.

“Ms. Martinez,” the man said gently. “I’m Hospital Security. I need to ask you some questions about your baby.”

“What’s wrong? Is she okay? Is Andrea okay?”

“When did you last see your daughter?”

“Last night. They took her to the nursery around eleven, maybe midnight. They said they’d bring her back.” Maya’s voice was rising. “Where is she? I want to see her right now.”

The security officer exchanged a glance with the nurse. “Ms. Martinez, I need you to stay calm. We’re doing everything we can, but—”

“Where is my baby?” Maya was shouting now, trying to get out of bed even though her body screamed in protest. “Where is Andrea?”

“We don’t know,” the officer said quietly. “We’re searching the hospital now, but it appears your daughter is missing.”

The word didn’t make sense. Missing. Babies didn’t go missing from hospitals. They were tracked, monitored, protected. There were alarms and cameras and—

“What do you mean missing?” Maya’s voice came out as a whisper.

“Sometime during the night, your daughter was taken. We’re reviewing security footage now and have contacted the police. They’re on their way.”

Taken.

Someone had taken her baby.

Maya couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process. Her arms felt empty again, but this time it wasn’t temporary. This time—

“No.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not—she can’t be—”

But the look on their faces told her it was true.

Andrea was gone.