“I needed you,” I said. “I asked you to sit with me while my child was in surgery. You told me to clear dishes.”
“You’re taking something said under pressure—”
“You gave me twenty minutes.”
My father stared at the carpet.
Mom glanced toward Maya’s door.
“Let us see our granddaughter.”
“Not while this is what you came to discuss.”
Her face changed.
“You can’t keep her from her family because of a disagreement.”
“Maya needs rest. We can discuss visits later. Today, you’re leaving.”
I was shaking when I said it.
My mother noticed. She had always mistaken that for uncertainty.
“Elena.”
“No.”
It was one small word. I had spent most of my life building elaborate sentences to avoid saying it.
They left the flowers at the nurses’ station.
Chloe responded more publicly.
She posted about a jealous sibling who had used money to sabotage a celebration she had worked years to earn.
