Emily’s gray T-shirt clung to her back.
The cheap white bulb above the mirror flickered every few seconds, hard enough to make the sweat on her neck shine.
I stood beside her with a thermometer in my hand and the old fear already opening in my chest.
Not fear of the hospital.
Not fear of money.
Fear of the man standing in the doorway behind us.
“If you drag her to the ER over one of her little performances,” Michael said, “don’t expect me to pay a dime.”
He said it like the important part of that sentence was the money.
He said it like our daughter had chosen to vomit until her ribs ached just to inconvenience him.
My name is Sarah Bennett.
I had been married to Michael for fifteen years by then, long enough to know exactly which tone meant the argument had already been decided.
