I looked at my hands.
For months, Daniel had turned pregnancy into a test I was supposedly taking for him.
The doctor’s words changed the question.
I had not failed to give him a son.
He had attacked a wife and a baby because neither could be controlled by his demand.
That truth did not reduce the grief.
It placed the grief where it belonged.
With him.
Emily helped me make a list before discharge.
It was not a list of revenge.
It was a list of ordinary things I would need because standing and walking were now difficult: loose sweatpants, a shower chair, a firm pillow, slip-on shoes, medication, and a place where no one would touch my phone.
She drove to her apartment and moved a small table beside the guest bed.
She put a charger within reach.
She cleared the hallway so my walker would not catch on a basket or rug.
