By midnight, it sounded like permission.
I booked a room at a hotel close to the hospital.
It was not a dramatic escape.
There was no suitcase packed for Ella, no favorite pajamas, and no toothbrush with her name on it.
We stopped at a twenty-four-hour store for basic clothes, toothpaste, and a phone charger.
Ella chose a plain blue T-shirt and held the rabbit under one arm while I paid.
At the hotel, she stood beneath the shower for a long time.
Then she came out wearing the new shirt, climbed into bed, and placed the rabbit between us.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
The question hurt more than Caroline’s threat.
“No.”
“Are you mad at Mom?”
“Yes,” I said, because children deserve truth that does not make them responsible for managing it. “But my feelings are not your job.”
Ella rubbed the rabbit’s bent ear.
