You leave Wilson's office in a huff, hazed and confused and pissed as hell. Cameron is still sitting in the diagnostics lab and you hurl her Midol at her when she asks how your shoulder feels instead of answering.

Instead of snapping at you, she mumbles, "I don't need it anymore," and you stop short. She hands you a print out from the lab tests and you don't even need to read it to know what she is talking about.

She tries to smile at you, but you just glare at her, "Fantastic news, sweetheart," you say, but you don't mean it and your voice is biting. She blinks, startled, and you storm out, the stolen cane awkward in your grasp.

You don't come home for three days. You stay at the nicest hotel you can find and you order room service every night. It doesn't make anything better and work is horrible. She calls in sick twice and on the third day, she never speaks directly to you.

You go home, and you apologize, lamely. You tell her that the mess with Tritter is worse than you've let on, that Wilson is leaving, and that you got that news right before iher/i news and your brain just short circuited. She looks a little relieved and she tries to kiss you, but you push her away and you ask what's for dinner.

You spend the next nine months pretending to be excited. You go out at three in the morning, you bring her back her stupid ice cream and her stupid double cheeseburgers, and you let her put fucking anchovies on the pizza. She paints your office pink and moves your desk into the living room and she smiles at you when she unpacks pink fucking frilly dresses into the white dresser.

You know she's expecting a proposal, but you never ask and you don't have Wilson to go with you to pick out a ring anyway.

She goes into labor three and a half weeks early and you're out of town at a conference so Chase drives her to the hospital. You arrive three hours after the child is born and Cameron is sitting in the bed, propped up with pillows and she's holding her like she's the most precious thing in the world. When you walk into the room, she beams at you and holds the baby out.

You think maybe you're supposed to feel something for this thing, and so you smile and you pat the child's head. It's a girl. You already knew that. She asks you about names, and she's trying so hard but you hand the child back and you tell her to pick something, that you don't care.

You leave Cameron and the child at the hospital and you spend the night alone in the apartment and you realize you miss being alone. Too fucking late now and tomorrow, you go back to PPTH and pick up Cameron and the child and you take them home. Cameron is slow on her feet, but you don't offer to carry the child. She settles herself on the couch, and you go back to work for the rest of the day.

When the child is five months old, you finally tell Cameron what she's known forever; you don't want this and it's not working. She is oddly quiet, and she nods and doesn't sob and beg like you thought she would, but you see a tear roll down her cheek anyway. She goes to the nursery to pack a bag for the child, and then to your bedroom and she tells you she'll call you when she knows what she's going to do.

You don't stop her.

She calls you a week later and asks that you please have her things shipped to her family's house in Wisconsin, and you pack on autopilot. You don't know if you want to cry or scream or which way is up, but when her things are gone and there is no evidence that a child ever lived in your apartment save for the room of pink walls, you sit on your couch and alternate scotch with Vicodin until you pass out.

You ignore the stares and the questions. You do not tell Foreman and Chase where Cameron is, and six months later, when their fellowship is up, they leave and you don't talk to them again.

It is three years before you see Cameron again, and it's not on purpose. Cuddy has sent you to speak at a conference and you agree only because she's the only person from before that you still speak to. You give your speech and you are sitting at the bar with your fourth scotch when you see her.

She is talking to a man; his back is towards you and you have no idea who he is. She is smiling and the diamond on her hand keeps catching the light from the ceiling. She tugs on the hem of her shirt and you notice that her belly curves, not enough for maternity clothes but enough to make normal clothes awkward.

You don't intend to say hello, but she sees you sitting at the bar and you shrug at her. She approaches you five minutes later, a glass of juice in one hand and her purse in another.

"Greg," she says, not sitting down.

"Dr. Cameron," you nod, swallowing your scotch and pointing at your empty glass, the bartender refuses.

The corners of her mouth twist awkwardly and she sighs. She doesn't know what to say any more than you do, and you wish she'd never come over. You were fine without her.

"I didn't know you were interested in Nephrology," you snort at her.

"My husband," she says, and you think her response is probably autopilot, because after she says it she looks horrified.

"Not Dr. Cameron, then," you say, and you ignore the way your stomach twists. You threw her away, you didn't want her.

She sighs, "I kept my name. We work at the same hospital, it would be confusing, two Dr. Andrews."

"Still so independent," you say, but you're not sure why. She gave you everything, would have given you the world, if you'd only asked.

She nods, obviously uncomfortable and she sips at her juice.

"When're you due?" you ask before you remind yourself you don't care.

"July 20th. Three days before…her birthday," she says, and then sets the cup down. She digs in her purse and opens her wallet.

There is a moment of hesitation before she sets the picture down in front of you.

"She's doing fine," she says simply, and she walks away.

You stare at the child – red hair, icy blue eyes, your nose, your smile and you turn the picture over.

iBlythe Cameron Andrews, three years old/i