Chapter 1
The hospital smelled of sharp, clinical antiseptic, a scent that caught in the back of Andre Jackson’s throat. He barely noticed the activity around him; all he could hear was the frantic pounding of his own pulse as he stepped off the elevator. He crossed toward the service desk, his tall frame moving with a hurried, restless energy. His low curly fade was still damp with the humidity outside, but he barely felt it. His movements were jagged, driven by the urgency in his chest.
“Loriel Peterson, room 302, please.”
“Can I have your name, ID, and relationship to the patient?” the woman at the desk replied, her voice sounding unnervingly calm.
“Andre Jackson. I’m the father.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket, his fingers clumsy, and handed over his ID. The woman scanned it, printed a visitor’s pass, and slid it across the counter.
“Just walk through the double doors, go to the end of the hall, and make a right.
The room will be on the left.”
“Okay, thanks.” Andre grabbed the pass, his eyes already fixed on the double doors at the end of the corridor.
He moved toward them, his heart hammering against his ribs. He reached for the handle, but his hand was shaking so violently he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a
second to steady himself. Beyond the door, he heard the sounds of a woman laboring
—a sharp, ragged intake of breath, followed by a low, desperate moan.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until two hands anchored him. One hand settled firmly on his left shoulder, and another closed over his trembling hand on the door handle.
“You can do this,” Nicholas said, his voice a steadying weight beside him. “We’re right outside if you need us,” Kendrick added from his left.
Andre nods his head and inhales. “Mom?” he says, looking back and forth from both of them.
“She’s on her way,” Nicholas says.
“Okay.” Andre took one last breath, steadying the tremor in his lungs, and pushed the doors open.
The hallway was a gauntlet of beeping monitors and the muffled, agonizing sounds of labor that made his pulse race. He turned the corner, his steps slowing as he neared room 302. He paused outside the door, his heart drumming against his ribs, before pushing it open.
The room was cramped, dominated by the rhythmic, cold \*beep-beep\* of the monitors. Loriel lay against the pillows, her caramel complexion drained of its usual warmth, making her appear fragile against the stark, sterile white of the hospital bed. Her parents stood beside her like sentries; both shared a darker, more weathered version of Loriel’s features and held themselves with rigid, unyielding posture.
“Sweetheart, what is he doing here?” the father demanded, his voice thin with irritation.
Loriel stammered, “I… I, um. I told him to come.” “Loriel, we talked about this,” her mother hissed. “Mom, he’s—”
“I’m the father of this baby,” Andre stepped forward, his voice firm, shedding his fear for a hardened resolve. “I have a right to be here.”
The father straightened his tie, looking Andre up and down with dismissive eyes. “Look here, son. We found a nice, stable family who has been struggling to conceive. They have the means to give this baby the life it deserves. You’re a teenager with no money and no career. Loriel is doing the right thing. Why can’t you?”
“I’m eighteen,” Andre shot back, his words laced with venom. “School will be out in a few months. I can work full-time, pay for daycare, and finish my classes at night. Unlike you, I’m not just going to give this baby away because I made a mistake. Loriel may have given up, but I still have a say.”
The mother scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.” You think it’s going to be that easy? You’re in over your head, Andre. Being a parent is a full-time job. You don’t have a clue.”
“Mom, please just hear him out,” Loriel whispered. Tears tracked through the sweat on her face.
“No,” Andre countered, locking eyes with her. “Your parents don’t care what I have to say. They’re trying to scrub their image clean. That’s why they hid you away for months, pretending you were in New York just so no one would know. Don’t let them make this decision for you, Loriel.”
“Excuse me—” the father started, his face reddening. “Where do you get off—” the mother snapped.
“Andre, I’m not ready to be a mother,” Loriel cut in. Her voice cracked, but the tone was devoid of the jagged edge it had held minutes ago. The medication had stripped the frantic emotion from her voice, leaving only a chilling, simple truth. She looked at him with a desperate, raw honesty.
“Being stuck in that house these past few months gave me a lot of time to think. I want to go to college, study abroad, and compete in national dance competitions. You know all the things we talked about. Are you really ready to give all that up?”
Andre felt the air leave his lungs. He put his hands on his hips and hung his head, the weight of the reality settling in.
“Yes, my parents were hiding me so they wouldn’t have to carry the shame of a pregnant daughter,” Loriel continued, her voice gaining strength, “but I didn’t want to carry the stigma of being a teen mom, either. I know I shouldn’t care, but what people say about me matters. But I’m not just doing this for me. This baby deserves a mother who actually wants to be one.”
“Andre, listen to her,” the father chimed in, his tone falsely soft. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t try to play the hero, thinking you can do this by your-self.”
“He won’t be by himself.”
The room went silent. Every head turned as Jazmin, Andre’s mother, stepped through the doorway. She moved with a calm, quiet purpose, her deep, warm mahogany complexion catching the soft, clinical light of the room, her gaze sweeping the space before settling, steady and grounded, on her son.
“You want to give up your rights and not be a part of this child’s life, so be it,” Jazmin said, her voice measured and devoid of malice. She looked at Loriel’s parents, her expression open. “I understand you want what is best for the baby, and I’m not here to judge your decision to choose adoption. That is a path that offers a child a stable life, and I respect that you’re looking out for their future.”
“But that isn’t the path my son is choosing,” Jazmin said, her voice steady. “I raised Andre not to judge others for their choices, and I’ve raised him to take responsibility
for his own. This baby is his child and my grandchild. We will do whatever we need to do to make sure this baby is loved and taken care of in our home.”
Patricia shook her head, her face twisting. “This is absurd. The courts are going to drag this out,” she hissed, pointing a finger at Jazmin. “You already have three other mouths to feed, Jazmin. How do you expect to—?”
“Excuse me? That’s enough.” Jazmin held up her hand and stepped forward, her voice low and dangerous. “I have been nothing but respectful to you and Charles this entire time, Patricia, but don’t push me. We can finish this conversation later. All this back-and-forth isn’t good for either of them. You focus on your child, and I’ll focus on mine and my grandchild.”
“Finally. Thank you,” Loriel whispered sluggishly, her eyes fluttering shut.
Knock-knock.
A middle-aged nurse stepped in, wearing a practiced, professional smile. “Oh, hello,” she said, glancing at the group. “I’m Nurse Jackie. You must be...”
“I’m Andre, the father,” he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. “And this is my mother, Jazmin.”
“Nice to meet you both.” Nurse Jackie turned her attention to the bed. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?”
“I’m a little drowsy, and I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure, but no pain,” Loriel murmured.
“That’s the epidural doing its job,” Jackie said. “You’ll feel the pressure of the baby moving down, but you shouldn’t feel any pain. I need to check your progress.”
