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MidReal Story
My Baby Daddy Is My Boss
Scenario:My name is Jack Phan I was just born in Minneapolis Minnesota to a woman named Hannah Phan who is Real Estate Agent on January 30th 2025 I was conceived due to Artificial Insemination my mother Hannah is 26 years of age
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Jack Phan
Minnesota. He is curious, innocent, and dependent. Born on January 30th, 2025, to Hannah Phan, a real estate agent who conceived him through artificial insemination. His mother's age is 26. Jack's life begins with the love and care of his mother, who nurtures him with dedication and affection.
Hannah Phan
caring, and independent. At 26 years old, she decided to have a child through artificial insemination. Hannah is devoted to her new role as a mother and provides Jack with love and support from the moment of his birth.
Lily Chen
loyal, and humorous. Lily has been friends with Hannah since college days and shares a strong bond with her. She often visits Hannah after Jack's birth to offer help and companionship during this new chapter in their lives.
My name is Jack Phan.
I was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota to a woman named Hannah Phan.
She's a real estate agent and I love her very much already.
I'm not even a day old but I can already tell that she's a great person.
My mom is single so it'll just be the two of us.
Well, her and the millions of microbes that are living on and inside of us.
We're not alone in this world, not by a long shot.
But among the macro-organisms, yes, it's just the two of us.
My mom got pregnant with me using artificial insemination.
It was a deliberate act on her part, conceiving me all on her own.
She's 26 years old and has wanted to be a mom for a long time.
My mom is Vietnamese and Irish.
Her parents immigrated to the United States from Vietnam after the war.
They met my mom's maternal grandparents in Nebraska and moved there when my mom was six and I was minus twenty-six years old.
She learned to speak Vietnamese from her parents but they wanted her to assimilate into American culture so they spoke only English to her at home and had her focus on school.
She went on to study business administration in college and now works selling houses.
She's very responsible and always planned everything out very carefully.
I feel my mom's hands under my back and bottom, lifting me from the hospital bassinet.
She moves very carefully, her motions precise and deliberate.
The soft fabric of her hospital gown brushes against my skin.
She draws me up to her chest, holding me close to her body.
Her heartbeat is steady and strong, a sound that I recognize from my time in the womb.
It's a comforting sound that I've heard for many months now.
The bright fluorescent lights above are dimmed by my mom's body as she shields me with her arms and torso.
She speaks softly to me in Vietnamese, then English.
"I have a nursery set up for you at home," she tells me.
"It has all of your toys and stuffed animals in it. There's a big teddy bear that I think you'll like. When you're bigger we'll go to the park together."
Her finger traces over my cheek and I grasp it reflexively, wrapping my tiny hand around her index finger.
"Mom," a voice interrupts softly from the doorway, "I didn't expect to see you here so soon."
Hannah turns, surprised, "Linh! I thought you were still in Vietnam."
"I was, but when I heard about Jack, I knew I had to come and meet my nephew."
My mom's eyes well up with tears as she sees her sister.
She hasn't seen her in three years, not since their mother's funeral.
She beckons her over to the hospital bed, still cradling me in her arms.
Linh approaches cautiously, her face worn from travel.
When she reaches the bedside, she peers down at me and smiles.
"Hello, Jack," she says softly.
She removes her coat and uses the hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall before sitting in the chair beside us.
My mom adjusts her position, carefully transferring me from her arms to Linh's.
I feel a shift in temperature and grip as new hands, slightly smaller than my mom's, take hold of me.
Linh cradles me close to her body, whispering Vietnamese words that I don't understand yet.
I rest my head on her shoulder as she begins swaying gently from side to side.
The motion makes my eyelids heavy.
A soft melody flows from her mouth, a familiar tune that I recognize from the lullaby Mom used to sing to me when I was still in her belly.
The sound bounces off the hospital walls and fills our corner of the maternity ward.
My mom wipes her tears away and joins in, her voice harmonizing with Linh's.
Their duet grows stronger but stays hushed, meant only for my ears.
The warmth of Linh's shoulder and the gentle swaying motion make my eyelids feel heavier.
The soft rhythm of the lullaby fills the air, a familiar melody that wraps around me like a blanket.
My mom's voice joins in, her tone blending with Linh's softer tones.
Their combined singing grows quieter, matching the slowing pace of my breaths.
The bright fluorescent lights above seem dimmer now, viewed through half-closed eyes.
Linh adjusts her hold, cradling me closer to her body as she continues the soothing rhythm.
I drift into sleep, cocooned in the safety of their love.
My tiny body relaxes completely in Aunt Linh's arms, the gentle swaying motion lulling me deeper into slumber.
The Vietnamese lullaby continues to flow around me, Mom and Linh's voices intertwining in perfect harmony.
Through my half-closed eyes, I see Mom lean closer, adjusting the soft blanket around me.
The hospital room's fluorescent lights create a hazy glow as I drift between sleep and wakefulness.
My fingers uncurl from their tight fist, and my breathing slows to a steady rhythm.
I remain completely still, even as Linh shifts me slightly in her arms.
Her sweater fabric scratches my cheek, a gentle sensation against my delicate skin.
As I rest in the comfort of her embrace, Mom reaches over to dim the hospital room's lights, creating a peaceful atmosphere for me to sleep.
The soft hum of the hospital equipment and the distant muffled voices of the medical staff provide a soothing background noise, lulling me deeper into slumber.
The melody of the lullaby fades away as Mom and Linh fall silent, watching over me in the quiet hospital room.
Their whispers start softly, almost imperceptible above the hum of the hospital equipment.
"Mother left more than we thought."
Aunt Linh's voice is barely audible, her words in Vietnamese carrying a hint of surprise.
My mom's sharp intake of breath cuts through the quietness of the room, breaking the stillness of the air.
Aunt Linh shifts slightly in her chair, leaning closer to Mom.
Their conversation becomes a hushed murmur, too quiet for even my heightened senses to decipher.
The fabric of Aunt Linh's sweater scratches my cheek as she adjusts me in her arms again. "Numbers and locations. Hidden accounts. Property deeds."
The words float on the edge of my awareness, just out of reach.
The hospital room falls silent once more, enveloped by an expectant stillness.
The only sound is the distant hum of hospital equipment and muffled footsteps down the corridor outside our room.
The approaching nurse's soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes signals their approach to our door.
The nurse pauses at the threshold, her silhouette framed by the dim light, as if sensing the weight of secrets in the air.
I stir slightly in Aunt Linh's arms, the nurse's squeaky shoes squeaking softly on the hospital floor.
She enters the room, clipboard in hand, her scrubs rustling softly as she moves.
Mom quickly wipes her eyes and straightens up, forcing a smile as the nurse approaches.
The nurse checks my vital signs while I remain nestled against Aunt Linh's sweater.
Through my drowsy state, I sense the tension between Mom and Aunt Linh, their meaningful glances speaking volumes without words.
Mom leans closer to Aunt Linh, her hair brushing my face, as she whispers urgently in Vietnamese about meeting later.
Aunt Linh nods once, her arms tightening protectively around me.
The nurse continues her task, checking my temperature and making notes on the clipboard.
She seems oblivious to the exchange between Mom and Aunt Linh, focused solely on her duties.
As the nurse finishes up, Mom stands from her chair, smoothing her hospital gown.
She gestures toward the door, speaking in hushed Vietnamese to Linh.
Aunt Linh hesitates, looking down at me in her arms before reluctantly standing.
Mom reaches for me, and I'm transferred back to her familiar embrace.
She gently places me in the hospital bassinet, adjusting my blanket around me.
The nurse moves between us, recording numbers on her chart as she leaves the room.
Mom touches Aunt Linh's arm, nodding toward the hallway.
I lie alone in the bassinet, the thin hospital blanket wrapped around me as Mom and Aunt Linh step out into the corridor.
Their footsteps fade away, leaving only the hum of hospital equipment and the faint squeak of rubber-soled shoes in the distance.
The fluorescent lights cast long shadows through the doorway where Mom and Aunt Linh stand just outside, their hushed Vietnamese whispers carrying back into the room.
Mom's sharp intake of breath cuts through the air, punctuating their hushed conversation.
I strain to focus on their words, but they remain just out of reach, fragmented phrases drifting back to me.
Something about papers and a house, Grandmother's name repeated several times.
A passing cart's squeaky wheels momentarily drown out their conversation, only for it to resume once more.
"Mom, why didn't you tell me about the house?" Aunt Linh's voice is tense, barely contained.
"I thought it was lost after the war," Mom replies, her voice trembling with a mix of regret and hope.
"But if it's still there, we need to find it before anyone else does," Aunt Linh insists, urgency creeping into her tone.
I drift in and out of sleep, my eyelids heavy with fatigue.
The fluorescent lights above flicker through my closed eyelids, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across my vision.
Mom and Aunt Linh's footsteps echo back into the room, growing louder with each passing moment.
Their shadows precede them, cast against the wall before they re-enter the hospital room.
Mom reaches out, her hand touching my cheek as she checks on me.
Aunt Linh pulls out her phone from her pocket, typing furiously with her thumbs as they continue their conversation in hushed tones above me.
"I'll book the flights to Vietnam for next month," Aunt Linh murmurs, her thumbs moving swiftly across the screen.
"We can't travel with a newborn," Mom protests softly, her gaze still fixed on me in the bassinet.
Aunt Linh pauses, looking at Mom with a determined glint in her eyes.
"We'll figure it out. We have to find the house before someone else does," Aunt Linh insists, her voice laced with urgency.
The hospital room falls silent once more, the only sound the steady beep of equipment and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
I rest in my bassinet, my eyes drifting closed as Mom and Aunt Linh's conversation fades into the background.
Their words hang in the air, a reminder of the secrets and mysteries that lie beyond these hospital walls.
The squeaky shoes return, echoing down the hospital corridor.
This time, they're accompanied by the rustle of papers and a clipboard being carried by a nurse.
The door creaks open, admitting a nurse with a thick manila envelope in her hands.
"Ms. Phan?" she asks, looking around the room until her gaze falls on Mom.
"These just arrived for you from Vietnam."
Mom's hand trembles as she reaches for the envelope, her face draining of color.
Aunt Linh steps closer, peering over Mom's shoulder at the Vietnamese script emblazoned across the front.
"Is it from the lawyer?" Aunt Linh asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mom nods, swallowing hard as she carefully opens the envelope, revealing a stack of documents inside.
"We need to go through these tonight," Mom says, her voice steadying with resolve.
She pulls out a handful of papers, her hands shaking as she scans their contents.
A metallic clink echoes through the room, drawing both women's attention to the hospital floor.
Something has slipped from the envelope, falling onto the linoleum with a faint thud.
Aunt Linh bends down, her eyes widening as she picks up an ornate golden key.
The surface is adorned with intricate Vietnamese characters, worn smooth by years of handling.
"Mom," Aunt Linh breathes, holding the key out for Mom to see.
"It's the key to Grandmother's old house in Hanoi. The one we thought was destroyed."
Mom's gaze lingers on the key, her expression a mix of longing and trepidation.
A small note slips from the remaining papers, fluttering to the floor.
Aunt Linh picks it up, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.
"It's from Grandmother," she says softly, her voice catching.
Mom's eyes well with tears as she whispers, "She knew we'd come back for it."
With the key clutched tightly in her hand, Mom begins to pace the hospital room, her phone pressed against her ear as she rapidly books flights to Vietnam.
Aunt Linh busies herself packing my diaper bag, her brow furrowed in concern.
"Are you sure we should be flying with a newborn?" Aunt Linh asks, her voice tinged with worry.
Mom shakes her head, her eyes still fixed on the key.
"We'll figure it out," she says firmly.
The nurse re-enters the hospital room, clipboard in hand, a look of concern etched across her face.
"Ms. Phan," she says gently.
"I have your discharge papers ready. But I do want to discuss something with you."
Mom's gaze snaps back to the nurse, her grip on the golden key tightening.
"Yes?"The nurse glances down at me, a small frown creasing her forehead.
"You mentioned you'd be traveling internationally soon. I just want to inform you that a newborn will require special medical clearance before flying. Additionally, there are vaccinations and medications you'll need to obtain prior to travel."
Mom's face falls, realization dawning on her features.
She had been so caught up in the excitement of finding the house that she hadn't considered the complexities of international travel with a newborn.
The nurse continues, "I can provide you with some resources for pediatricians who specialize in travel medicine. They'll be able to guide you through the process." Aunt Linh steps forward, placing a supportive hand on Mom's shoulder.
"We appreciate that," Aunt Linh says softly.
"I think we'll need some time to process everything."
The nurse nods understandingly before turning to leave.
"I'll give you both some time. Just let me know if you have any questions or concerns."
As the door closes behind the nurse, Mom turns to Aunt Linh, a mix of determination and trepidation swirling in her eyes.
"We can't wait," Mom whispers.
"We have to find that house before someone else does."
Aunt Linh sighs softly, shaking her head.
"Why don't I go first? Secure the house and then we can follow when Jack is older?"
Mom's grip on the golden key tightens further, her knuckles growing white.
"No," Mom says firmly, her voice resolute.
"I need to be there. It's too important."
Aunt Linh nods, a look of understanding crossing her features.
"Okay, but we'll need to make some calls. See if we can find anyone willing to help us."
She pulls out her phone, dialing a number before holding it up to her ear.
After a brief pause, she says, "Hello? Aunt? It's Linh."
The conversation flows rapidly in Vietnamese, Aunt Linh speaking in hushed tones as she paces the hospital room.
Mom leans against the bassinet, listening intently as Aunt Linh occasionally glances her way.
The name "Mrs. Nguyen" is mentioned several times, and Mom's eyes light up with recognition.
Aunt Linh's expression brightens, her voice filled with urgency as she continues speaking.
She pauses briefly before holding the phone out to show Mom the screen.
Grandmother's old house appears in grainy resolution, accompanied by a faint image of an elderly woman with silver hair.
"Tomorrow," Aunt Linh says softly, her voice filled with relief.
"She'll go check on the house and make sure no one touches it until we can get there."
The woman on the screen nods vigorously, her eyes shining with determination.
Aunt Linh bows slightly to the screen before ending the call.
She turns to Mom, her face etched with concern.
"We'll need to wait a few months for the house to be secure," Aunt Linh says softly.
"But then we'll be able to go."
As I open my eyes, the morning light filtering through my bedroom window casts a warm glow on my surroundings.
The same golden key from my birth now hangs on the wall above my desk, a memento of our journey.
Mom's voice calls out from downstairs, "Jack! Don't forget your baseball gear! Practice starts soon!"
I grab my Badgers varsity jacket from the closet, running a hand over the embroidered emblem.
A photo from last week's game still lingers in my pocket—a picture of Mai Ling and me celebrating after I pitched a complete shutout.
The house in Vietnam remains unsold, watched over by Mrs. Nguyen all these years while Mom continues to postpone our trip, citing her busy schedule or my school commitments.
As I adjust my cap in the mirror, my reflection stares back at me.
I realize it's time to finish what was started and finally unlock the door to our past.
I grab my baseball gear and rush downstairs, Mom fussing over my jacket collar as I pass.
The golden key swings on its chain around my neck, a tangible connection to the journey that awaits.
Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of Mai Ling waiting in her car, her long dark hair visible through the windshield.
Mom continues to talk about calling Mrs. Nguyen later, but I'm only half listening.
I check my phone—three texts from Mai Ling already.
I slide into the passenger seat of Mai Ling's car, my baseball bag thumping against the back seat.
She leans over, her lips soft against mine as the key swings between us.
"Hey baby," she says, glancing up at Mom who still stands in the doorway.
"Let's go."
Mai Ling starts the engine but hesitates, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
"Oh by the way," she adds quietly, "we need to talk about the trip after practice."
My heart skips a beat—she knows about Vietnam.
"I'd like you to come with us if you'd like."
I nod, feeling the weight of the key and the promise it holds.
We arrive at the baseball field early, parking in a quiet corner of the lot.
Mai Ling turns off the engine and faces me, her hand brushing against the Vietnamese key that hangs around my neck.
"We should do it before you go," she whispers, her voice husky.
I nod, the key feeling heavy against my chest as we seal our promise with a kiss.
Coach Martinez's truck pulls into the lot, headlights sweeping across us.
I pull away from Mai Ling, the beam illuminating us for a moment.
Through the windshield, I see Coach walking toward our car, clipboard tucked under his arm.
He knocks on my window, a grin on his face.
I roll it down, the cool air a welcome respite from the heat of our kiss.
"Ready to watch Sheng Ming Wang pitch his no-hitter today?" he asks, his voice full of excitement.
