“I comprehend perfectly,” I replied. My voice was a barren wasteland.
Eleanor smiled, visibly relieved that I wasn’t throwing a hysterical fit. “You are just such a wonderfully reasonable girl. Don’t take the birth certificate issue to heart. Society is incredibly progressive now. Plentiful amounts of girls carry their mother’s surname!”
I sipped the broth. It tasted like ash. I didn’t bother to argue. Every condescending syllable escaping her lips was destined to become a tragic comedy in less than twenty hours.
The moment she left, I buzzed the nurse’s station. Despite having given birth a mere fourteen hours prior, my episiotomy stitches burning like hot wire with every movement, I demanded my discharge papers. By noon, Khloe arrived. She took one look at my pale face, the packed suitcase at my feet, and my daughter sleeping against my chest. She didn’t offer empty platitudes; she simply grabbed my luggage.
