“She wasn't.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“She was sixteen.”
Emily's jaw tightened.
Good.
He continued.
“I frightened her.”
“I regret that.”
Emily stared.
“You don't get anything from saying that to me.”
“I know.”
“Do you have hereditary heart disease?”
He answered.
Diabetes?
Cancer?
Neurological disorders?
He brought records.
His father died of colon cancer.
Mother had type 2 diabetes.
One son had asthma.
Practical information.
Emily wrote it down.
Then she asked:
“Do you want to know me?”
Owen started crying.
“Yes.”
Emily's face stayed calm.
“I don't.”
He closed his eyes.
“Okay.”
She continued.
“That might change.”
“Don't wait for it.”
“I won't contact you.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Do not contact Rebecca.”
“I won't.”
We left.
In the parking lot, Emily vomited beside a hedge.
I held her hair.
Motherhood.
Not genetics.
Just knowing what to do when your child throws up.
When she finished, she laughed miserably.
“Very dignified.”
“I've seen worse.”
