Wilson sat at her desk, staring blankly at the patient reports in front of her. The room was dimly lit, the only sound was the steady ticking of the clock.
She should be resting, but sleep felt impossible. Her mind was tangled in too many thoughts—Stella waking up, the unspoken history between them, the weight of the promise she had made in the ER.
A soft knock pulled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she said, straightening in her chair.
The door opened, and two surgeons walked in, followed closely by three nurses. One of them—Nurse Aisha—held a small, tightly wrapped bundle in her arms. The baby.
Wilson's breath hitched.
The child's tiny face peeked out from the blankets, his eyes barely open, his small fists curled near his cheeks. His chest rose and fell in soft, steady breaths.
The room was silent for a moment, everyone watching Wilson.
Dr. Mensah, one of the surgeons, finally spoke. "She didn't make it, Dr. Wilson." His voice was quiet, respectful. "We tried everything."
Wilson clenched her jaw, nodding slowly. She knew this would happen. She knew she wouldn't survive. But hearing it out loud still sent a dull ache through her chest.
Aisha stepped forward. "Before she went under the knife, she signed this," she said, handing Wilson a document.
Wilson unfolded it with slightly shaky hands.
Legal guardianship.
Her name was written clearly. Wilson Ellah —named as the child's guardian.
Her eyes flicked to the bottom of the page. The woman's signature was rushed, uneven, but firm. A desperate final act.
A lump formed in Wilson's throat.
"She also listed you on the birth certificate," Dr. Mensah added, handing her a second document.
Wilson stared at it. Mother's Name: Unknown. Guardian: Wilson Ellah
She exhaled shakily. This wasn't just a promise anymore. It was real.
A soft whimper drew her gaze back to the baby.
Aisha stepped forward, gently placing the child in Wilson's arms. Instinctively, Wilson adjusted her grip, supporting his fragile body against her chest.
The baby let out a tiny sigh, snuggling into her.
Wilson felt something shift inside her. She had held countless newborns in the NICU, had saved premature babies who fit in the palm of her hand. But this was different.
This wasn't just a baby. This was her baby now.
The other doctors and nurses watched quietly, amazed at her reaction.
Wilson looked down at the child, tracing his delicate features with her eyes. He was warm, soft, impossibly small.
Her heartbeat slowed. For the first time in hours, maybe even days, the chaos around her faded.
The baby stirred slightly, his tiny fingers brushing against her coat. Wilson swallowed past the tightness in her throat and whispered, almost to herself—
"I've got you."
Wilson sat in her office, the baby still nestled against her chest, his warmth seeping into her skin. The room had emptied now, leaving only her and the tiny life she had just become responsible for.
She inhaled deeply, her mind drifting back to a different time, a different version of herself.
The day she boarded the plane to the USA.
She had been 22, gripping the handle of her suitcase so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her mother had stood at the airport with her three younger siblings, their faces a mix of pride and sadness.
"Make it count, Wilson," her mother had whispered, pressing a worn-out envelope into her hands. It had contained just enough money to get her through the first few weeks. "You are our hope."
Wilson nodded, swallowing back tears. She hadn't wanted to leave them. But she had no choice.
She had been alone from the moment she stepped on that plane. No family around now, no one to talk to. Just her, a student visa, and the crushing weight of responsibility.
She had worked through medical school, balancing classes and night shifts, pushing through exhaustion, reminding herself every day—failure was not an option.
And now, years later, she was here. A respected surgeon. A name people knew.
And yet, looking down at the sleeping baby in her arms, she realized—she had never felt as lost as she did right now.
How was she supposed to do this?
She barely had time for herself. She had built her life around her career, her patients. She had never even imagined having a child.
But here he was. Her son now.
Wilson sighed, resting her cheek lightly against the baby's soft head. I had nothing when I came here. I built everything from scratch.
Maybe… maybe she could build this too.For him.
FLASHBACK
Wilson's mind drifted further back, to a special moment —the day she met Dr. Wilson Stephen.
She was in her third year of medical school, exhausted from back-to-back classes, and had stopped by a mall to grab a quick meal before heading to her night shift. The mall was crowded, people were rushing about, but something had caught her eye—a white man, older, standing near the escalator, looking utterly lost.
At first, she hadn't planned to stop. She was tired, drained. But something about the way he kept looking around, confused, made her pause.
"Sir, do you need help?" she asked.
The man turned, his sharp blue eyes widening as he took her in.
For a moment, he just stared.
Then, his voice came out hoarse. "You… you look just like her." Wilson frowned. "Like who?"
"My daughter," he whispered. His gaze softened, full of something Wilson couldn't quite name—grief, longing. "She—she passed away two years ago. A car accident. With my wife. And my son."
Wilson's heart clenched. "I'm… I'm so sorry."
The man exhaled shakily, running a hand through his greying hair. "I—" He hesitated. "I know this is strange, but would you sit with me? Just for a moment?"
Wilson paused. This wasn't part of her plan for the day. But something in his eyes—the way they pleaded silently—made her nod.
"Okay," she said.
They found a small café inside the mall, and as they sat down, he finally introduced himself.
"Dr. Wilson Stephen. Cardiac surgeon."
Wilson blinked in surprise. "You're a surgeon?"
He gave a sad smile. "Was. I haven't stepped into an OR since they died." He exhaled. "And you? What's your name?"
"Ellah Wilson," she said simply.
His eyes widened slightly. Then, to her shock, he chuckled. "Of course it is. She was Wilson too."
Wilson felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Must've been a great name then."
He nodded. "The best."
They talked for over an hour. About his late wife—a black woman, bold and full of life. About his daughter, who had been a tomboy just like Wilson, always running around in sneakers, playing basketball, dreaming of becoming a doctor.
Everything about Wilson—her posture, her confidence, even the way she spoke—reminded him of her.
"I don't know why I asked you to sit with me," he admitted at the end, his voice thick with emotion. "But I think… I just needed to remember for a little while."
Wilson didn't know what to say. But as she looked into his tired, grief-filled eyes, she simply nodded.
"Sometimes, remembering helps."
They parted ways that day, but Dr. Wilson Stephen never let her go.
He kept in touch, he had gotten his life back on track because of Ellah , he slowly became a mentor, a guide. He had introduced her to surgeons, opened doors she never could have opened alone