"It's hard for me to grasp how any mother could be so callous!" the nurses' quarter was uncharacteristically abuzz with gossip. The nurse who had made the remark was still shaking her head in disbelief, her grey curls perilously close to escaping the confines of her cap. The other nurses shared the expression on her face and her shocked sentiments. Trained to hide most emotions, this was too much – and rather too juicy if you looked at it one way – for them to contain. The woman in Private Room # 301 on the third floor had just been informed by the paediatrician that her baby, born prematurely at 23 weeks, had died in the incubator. Mia nodded in acknowledgement of the news. She drifted off to sleep. No tears. No screams. The paediatrician hesitantly turned to the nurse beside him. The nurse shrugged and walked out of the room. The doctor followed, the clip-clops of their boots the only sound in the otherwise silent and sterile white room. Once Mia was sure she was alone, a single tear fell from the corner of her left eye. She thought of Thomas, sweet Thomas. She snorted when she realized she still thought of him as sweet. Thomas had met someone when Mia was two months pregnant. Never one to mince words, he announced without preamble that he was leaving. It was pointless to argue with Thomas, Mia knew. She smiled, for tears seemed too heavy. She smiled and Thomas took it as the assent he needed to absolve himself of any guilt he may have felt.
And she still thought of Thomas was still sweet, her mind said, rather sardonically. She had planned to name the little one Thomas Jr. Thomas was gone. Thomas Jr. died before he could live. Before Mia could love him. She could cry. In fact, she mused, for the sake of appearances, she must cry. But nodding with indifference was so much easier.