Chapter 5 - The NICU Glass
Three days later, I was allowed to leave my hospital bed in a wheelchair for my first visit to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
The NICU was a quiet, dimly lit world of softly beeping monitors, blue light warmers, and tiny plastic incubators. The air smelled of sterile antiseptic and warm fabric.
Ethan pushed my wheelchair up to Incubator 12.
Inside, lay our daughter, Lily.
She looked impossibly small. Her tiny arms were no thicker than my thumb, a blue light blanket wrapped around her tiny torso, and a small CPAP tube resting over her nose to help her immature lungs breathe. Her skin was thin and translucent, but beneath the clear plastic hood, her dark eyelashes rested against her cheeks.
Tears welled in my eyes as I reached through the circular porthole of the incubator, gently touching the tip of her tiny pink finger with my pinky.
Her tiny hand immediately curled around my finger, holding on with a surprising, fierce strength.
"Hi, sweetie," I choked out, a watery smile breaking across my face. "I'm your mama. You're so brave, Lily... you're so strong."
Ethan knelt beside my wheelchair, resting his chin on my shoulder, his large hand resting over mine inside the incubator. For the first time in four days, the overwhelming weight of terror in my chest began to lift.
The quiet moment was shattered by a nurse stepping up to our station.
"Mrs. Vance?" the nurse said softly. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there are two people in the waiting room demanding to see you. They claim to be your parents."
I felt Ethan's entire body go rigid against my back.
"They're not allowed on this floor," Ethan said, his voice flat and cold. "There is a temporary restraining order in effect."
"They brought a lawyer with them," the nurse explained nervously. "He's making a scene at the front desk, claiming they have legal grand-parental visitation rights and demanding to see the infant."
I let go of Lily's finger, closing the incubator porthole carefully. I looked at Ethan, my face hardening into stone.
"Wheel me out there, Ethan," I said.
"Claire, you don't have to face them," Ethan said gently. "I can have security throw them out onto the street."
"No," I replied, looking down at my bandaged stomach beneath my sweater. "I want to look them in the eye."
Ethan stared at me for a second, seeing the quiet, unbreakable resolve in my eyes, then nodded silently. He grabbed the handles of my wheelchair and pushed me through the double doors toward the lobby.
Standing near the security desk were my parents, accompanied by a greasy-looking man in an ill-fitting gray suit holding a leather briefcase.
My mother looked frantic, her makeup smeared, her designer coat wrinkled. My father stood beside her, his arms crossed, looking furious rather than remorseful.
"Claire!" Eleanor cried out, trying to push past the security guard. "Oh, thank God! Look at what your husband is doing to us! They arrested Brooke! She's sitting in a holding cell right now because of Ethan's lies!"
"Stay where you are, Eleanor," Ethan commanded, stopping my wheelchair ten feet away from them.
"Claire, listen to me," Richard spoke up, his voice booming across the lobby. "This whole thing has gotten completely out of hand! Brooke made a mistake, fine! But she's your sister! You can't let them prosecute her! It will destroy her life! It will ruin my reputation in this city!"
I sat in my wheelchair, looking at the man who had raised me, looking at the woman who had watched her daughter kick her pregnant child and done nothing but tell me I was embarrassing myself.
"My daughter almost died, Dad," I said, my voice steady, clear, and ringing with an absolute lack of emotion. "Brooke kicked me in the stomach while I was lying on your kitchen floor. You told me to stand up or you'd let her do it again."
"I was trying to motivate you!" Richard yelled back, without a single shred of shame. "You were being melodramatic over a trust document!"
"She was bleeding internally, you monster!" Ethan roared, taking a step forward.
The greasy lawyer stepped between them, holding up his hands. "Mr. Vance, please! I am Donald Vance—no relation—representing Mr. and Mrs. Vance. Under state law, my clients have a right to file for grandparent visitation access, and—"
"Donald," a deep, booming voice interrupted from behind the security desk.
Marcus Vance walked into the lobby.
He was six-foot-three, wearing a three-piece bespoke navy suit, carrying a thick black leather folder. He didn't look at my parents; he looked directly at their lawyer.
"Donald Vance," Marcus smiled, a cold, predatory expression that made the greasy lawyer instantly swallow hard. "I didn't realize you were still practicing law after your suspension by the state bar last year."
"Marcus..." Donald stammered, taking a step back. "This... this is a private family matter—"
"It ceased being a family matter the moment your clients aided and abetted in felony aggravated assault against my sister-in-law," Marcus said, pulling a stack of legal papers from his folder and slapping them squarely against Donald's chest.
"What is that?" Richard demanded.
"That," Marcus replied coldly, "is a grand jury indictment for conspiracy to commit grand larceny, wire fraud, and obstruction of justice. Furthermore, a judge signed an emergency injunction an hour ago seizing all assets connected to Vance Real Estate LLC and freezing your personal banking accounts."
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Eleanor let out a sharp, piercing shriek. "Our accounts?! You can't freeze our accounts!"
"We just did," Marcus said softly, stepping closer until he was looking down into my father's pale, trembling face. "And as for grandparent visitation... if either of you comes within five hundred feet of my niece, my brother, or Claire ever again, I will personally ensure you spend the next ten years in a state penitentiary."
