I sat in the sterile, white chair, the hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, my mind a churning torrent of disbelief and anger. The six words I had sent to Ryan were simple but searing: “Sarah is in coma. New baby.”
I could only imagine the scene unraveling on that yacht. Ryan’s phone vibrating in his pocket, perhaps as he toasted with champagne, the world around him a bubble of celebration and ignorance. In that instant, his face must have mirrored my own internal chaos—shock, fear, and an overwhelming sense of impending doom. But unlike me, he had chosen this path, a path that veered so far from the vows he made to my daughter.
