The delivery room smelled faintly of antiseptic and sweat, sharp and sterile against the warmth of the tiny body placed on my chest. I remember his cry—raw, demanding, alive—and the way the world seemed to narrow down to just us. My son. My miracle. But then the nurse, a woman with tired eyes and gentle hands, reached for him. “We’ll just get him cleaned up,” she said softly. I nodded, dazed, trusting. Hours later, when the haze lifted, I realized she’d held him longer than she should have. And when she handed him back, something in her eyes told me she hadn’t wanted to let go.
The months leading up to the birth had been lonely. My husband traveled often for work, leaving me to face swollen ankles, midnight cravings, and the hum of an empty apartment. The nursery was painted pale blue, the crib assembled crookedly by my sister, the rocking chair worn from secondhand use. I’d read every book, joined every forum, told myself I was ready. Still, when labor hit, fear clamped down on me. I gripped the hospital sheets, cried out until my throat went raw. When they finally placed my son in my arms, relief flooded me. I didn’t notice how the nurse lingered.
She was middle-aged, her blonde hair streaked with gray, her badge swinging as she leaned closer. She cooed as she swaddled him, kissed the top of his head when she thought I wasn’t looking. At first, I thought it was kindness. Nurses loved babies, didn’t they? They carried them like second skin. But later, as I lay in bed, exhausted, I noticed she still had him. Not for minutes, but nearly an hour. Rocking, whispering, tracing his tiny cheek with her finger. I asked, groggy, “Is everything okay?”
She startled slightly, then smiled. “Perfectly healthy. I just… he’s precious. Reminds me of mine.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
I didn’t think much of it then. But when she finally laid him back in my arms, her eyes glistened. “Don’t ever take this for granted,” she whispered.
The next morning, during shift change, another nurse mentioned it in passing. “She gets attached sometimes,” she said with a knowing smile. “Lost her own baby years ago.” The words lodged in my chest.
That evening, when the same nurse came back on duty, she moved quickly to my bedside. “How’s my little man?” she asked, reaching for him before I could answer. This time, I hesitated. My arms tightened instinctively around him.
Her smile faltered. For a heartbeat, the room was silent but for the rhythmic beep of machines. Then she chuckled softly, covering the moment. “Sorry, force of habit.”
But it wasn’t habit. It was longing. I could see it in her eyes—something raw, almost desperate. And suddenly, I understood.
The climax came the following night. I woke to the squeak of my door opening. The room was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor. She stood there, cradling my baby. I must have drifted off while nursing, and she’d taken him. My chest tightened, panic rising.
“What are you doing?” My voice was sharp, louder than I intended.
She froze, caught, her face bathed in the faint glow of the monitor. “He was fussing,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to wake.”
My pulse hammered. “Give him to me. Now.”
For a long moment, she just held him, swaying gently, her eyes locked on his tiny face. Then, reluctantly, she placed him back in my arms. Her fingers lingered on his blanket. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s just… sometimes I forget he’s not mine.”
The room felt colder after she left. I clutched my son tightly, listening to his small breaths, the smell of milk and powder comforting me. My body trembled, not from fear exactly, but from the sudden awareness of how fragile everything was.
In the morning, I requested a different nurse. I didn’t give details, just said I needed space. When she didn’t return, a strange mix of guilt and relief washed over me.
Weeks later, when we were home, I rocked my son in the worn chair, the walls of the nursery glowing soft in the nightlight. I thought of her—of the way she kissed his head, of the sorrow in her eyes, of how hard it must be to cradle dozens of newborns when you’ve lost your own. And though I couldn’t excuse what she did, I understood the ache that drove her to hold him longer than she should have.
Final Thought
Motherhood doesn’t always begin with birth. Sometimes it begins with loss, with longing, with empty arms that ache for what they can’t have. The nurse crossed a line, but beneath it was grief, raw and human. That night taught me two things: to guard what is mine fiercely—and to remember that love, even misplaced, often comes from pain we cannot see.
