“When your mother was young,” she said, “she depended on Richard more than she has ever admitted. Your father didn’t like that.”
I thought of my father’s voice earlier, cold and dismissive. You made your own bed, Claire.
“He didn’t like anyone she listened to besides him,” I said.
Richard did not deny it.
Melissa returned just then, saving us from saying more. She checked the monitors, asked about my pain, and helped adjust Noah’s bassinet closer to the bed so I could see him without turning too far.
“You need sleep,” she said, in a tone that suggested she would personally negotiate with the universe if necessary.
I almost smiled. “Is that an order?”
“A strongly worded recommendation.”
Evelyn stood. “Richard and I will stay in the room.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We know,” she said. “We’re staying anyway.”
I was too tired to argue.
