I nodded.
Maya let the recording continue.
The audio wasn’t perfect.
There was hallway noise and the muffled scrape of hospital equipment.
But the voices were unmistakable.
Dalia discussing what would happen if the baby was a girl.
Rayan saying paperwork had already been handled.
Dalia saying I could be told the baby had died.
Then Maya’s own voice asking about the discharge plan.
Rayan answering, “It’s already arranged.”
And then one sentence I hadn’t heard before I blacked out.
Dalia said, “Once she’s transferred, there won’t be anything for her to fight about.”
My mouth went dry.
“Transferred where?”
Rayan looked away.
Maya answered carefully.
“That’s one of the things the hospital is reviewing.”
Dalia snapped, “Reviewing? Who gave you authority to interfere in our family?”
Maya’s eyes hardened.
“The patient lying in this bed is the mother.
This is her medical care and her baby.”
The door opened again.
This time, a hospital supervisor entered with another staff member.
Maya had already reported what Zeke showed her while I was unconscious.
The documents Rayan had handed over at check-in had been pulled from the chart and flagged.
The supervisor spoke to me first.
Not to Rayan.
Not to Dalia.
To me.
“Before we discuss anything else, I need to ask you directly: did you authorize anyone to make a discharge or placement decision for your daughter?”
“No.”
“Did you sign documents giving your husband authority to surrender, transfer, or otherwise make that decision without you?”
“No.
I never even saw the papers he brought here.”
Rayan cut in.
“We discussed this.”
I looked at him.
“When?”
His jaw tightened.
“At home.”
“When?”
He couldn’t answer.
Because there had been no conversation.
There had only been whispers in the kitchen after they thought I had gone to bed.
The supervisor lifted a folder.
“The signatures and authorization on these forms are being reviewed.
Until that review is complete, nothing concerning the baby’s discharge will proceed except through the mother’s verified consent and the hospital’s normal safeguarding process.”
Dalia gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
“This is ridiculous.
He’s her husband.”
The supervisor turned toward her.
“Marriage does not turn an unconscious patient into an absent person.”
For once, Dalia had no immediate reply.
Rayan tried another approach.
He moved closer to my bed and softened his voice.
It was the voice that had once convinced me he was protective.
