He had stood beside frightened mothers, overwhelmed fathers, and newborns who arrived too soon, too quiet, or too fragile. People trusted him because he never shook, never panicked, and never let the fear in the room become his own. But in Delivery Room Four, with gray winter light pressing against the windows, Robert looked at the newborn in the nurse’s arms and felt the world tilt beneath him.
The baby was tiny, angry at the cold, his little fists curled near his cheeks. Damp dark hair clung to his head. Just below his left collarbone, where the blanket had slipped aside, was a birthmark shaped like a broken crescent—pale at the edges, darker in the center, like a small moon cut by shadow. For one impossible moment, Robert was no longer in the hospital. He was decades in the past, holding another newborn with the same mark in the same place. A child who had disappeared. A child he had believed was lost forever.
“Doctor?” the nurse asked.
Joanna noticed his reaction. Exhausted from labor, her body still trembling, she lifted her head with the fierce awareness only a new mother has.
“Is something wrong?” she whispered.
Robert opened his mouth, but no words came. He wiped at his eyes quickly, as if embarrassed, then pushed his shaking hand into his coat pocket.
“Nothing is wrong with the baby,” he finally said, though his voice sounded fragile.
Joanna’s eyes narrowed.
“Then why are you crying?”
He looked down at her chart again. Joanna Ellis. Twenty-eight years old. No emergency contact. No spouse listed. Father of child: not provided.
“May I ask,” Robert said carefully, “what is the father’s name?”
