Chapter 4. Miscarriage
1097 Words
[Dad, 9:17 a.m.: Just go home first, drop your stuff, then come to Kennedy Hospital. I’m in the ICU waiting area.]
I let out a long breath.
I’d just turned my phone back on after landing when the message came through, blunt and too calm for something that serious. It dragged me right back to reality—back to Mom, to the possibility that things might go very wrong.
New York in summer was loud even at JFK. The air was thick, humid, heavy with jet fuel and heat. People moved fast, dragging carry-ons, shouting into phones, living their lives like nothing in the world was about to fall apart.
I grabbed a cab straight from the airport.
“Upper East Side,” I said, my voice flat.
The city blurred past the window—yellow cabs, brick buildings, fire escapes, street vendors selling pretzels and bottled water. This was the city where I grew up. Where everything I was—good and bad—had been shaped.
The mansion looked the same.
Classic European style. Stone façade. Tall iron gates. Too grand for a kid who’d grown up thinking life would always be easy.
Security recognized me instantly. So did the house staff.
“Noah! You’re home!”
They swarmed me like I’d never left, asking if I was tired, if I’d eaten, listing dishes they remembered I loved—braised short ribs, mushroom soup, that stupidly expensive dessert Mom used to order just because I liked it.
I smiled. I joked. I thanked them.
I played the role of the polite, warm young master they remembered.
But my mind never left my mother.
I ate quickly, barely tasting anything, then went straight to the garage. One of the cars was already prepared for me. I didn’t even hesitate.
Twenty minutes later, I was walking into Kennedy Hospital.
The lobby smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Everything was white and too bright. My chest felt tight as I headed for the ICU waiting area, scanning faces.
He wasn’t there.
I looked around again—then spotted him through the glass doors near the parking area.
Aryan.
Still annoyingly youthful for a man pushing fifty. Tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves. A cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the summer air.
I walked up to him.
“Hey, old man,” I said, offering a fist bump.
He smirked and bumped me back with his left hand, his right still holding the cigarette. “Hey, kiddo.”
He offered me the pack.
I shook my head. I smoked sometimes, sure—but not now. Not when everything already felt wrong.
We stood there in silence until he finished, crushing the cigarette under his shoe on the pavement.
“Wait inside,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”
I did as told, sitting in one of the stainless-steel chairs lining the ICU wall. I checked my phone without really seeing anything. A moment later, Aryan returned with two cans of soda and handed one to me.
“Mom… how is she?” I asked, popping the tab.
He exhaled slowly. “You’d be mad at me if you knew the whole story.”
I glanced at him. For all his refusal to age gracefully, Aryan had always been more emotionally mature than my mother—five years older, yet somehow calmer. “I won’t.”
He looked down, biting his lip. “You know… we did it like bunnies.”
I stared at him, genuinely confused. What? “I don’t get it, Dad.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You know—newlyweds. In love. Passionate.”
“Okay. Stop. I got it,” I cut in quickly. He coughed, embarrassed.
“Then she got pregnant,” he said quietly. “We thought at her age… it wouldn’t happen. So we didn’t hold back at all. This morning, when I woke up—there was blood. A lot of it.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” I said honestly. “I don’t blame you. Even if this is… weird.”
“We might lose the baby,” he said, voice breaking. “But we already have you. That should be enough.”
“I want a sibling too,” I said, forcing a grin. “But if the kid calls me uncle, I’m starting a war.”
That earned a real laugh from him—brief, but genuine.
A nurse approached moments later, telling us Mom had stopped bleeding and would be moved to a VIP inpatient room. Aryan was sent to handle the paperwork, leaving me alone again—with my thoughts.
Mom. Pregnant. At fifty-two.
A baby. Me learning how to be a brother. And—completely out of nowhere—the image of Harper slipped into my head, uninvited and vivid.
The ICU doors opened before they wheeled her out, unconscious, pale but breathing. I stood instantly, following the gurney while Aryan trailed behind.
I was terrified she’d wake up angry. That she’d throw me out. That she’d tell me I didn’t belong here.
But I stayed because missing her hurt more than my fear.
The VIP room was massive—extra bed, private bathroom, sofa set with a coffee table, lavender walls, flat-screen TV, mini fridge, even a microwave. Money wrapped everything in comfort, even fear.
We ordered room service from the hospital’s five-star restaurant. Neither of us touched much of it.
All afternoon, she slept.
The doctor reassured us she was stable, still under anesthesia. It didn’t help much.
That night, I stretched out on the sofa, lights dimmed. Aryan lay on the extra bed, scrolling on his phone, half-asleep.
Then—
“I… where am I? I’m thirsty…”
We both sat up instantly.
Aryan moved fast, adjusting the bed, turning the dimmer up slightly. “Call the doctor, kid.”
He helped her drink water through a straw while I bolted out to get help.
A young doctor and two nurses came in, checking vitals, administering medication and vitamins through her IV. Aryan stayed by her side, holding her hand like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.
I stood by the doorway, watching.
My chest felt tight again.
I was scared.
Scared she’d wake up and scream. Scared she’d tell me to leave. Scared that I’d lost her for good.
And all I could do was stand there, in the middle of a New York summer night, hoping she’d open her eyes—and still want me.
- Writer
