“Do you want me to?”
I looked at Ethan.
For months I had imagined seeing Logan again.
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In some versions, I screamed at him.
In others, I walked past without speaking.
Sometimes he begged.
Sometimes I didn’t care.
None of those fantasies had included me sitting in a hospital bed with swollen feet, wearing a pale blue gown, while our son slept three feet away.
“I don’t want him to come here tonight.”
Robert nodded.
“But tell him Ethan was born.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
I thought carefully.
“Tell him we’re both healthy.”
Robert waited.
“That’s all?”
“For tonight.”
He gave a small nod.
“That’s enough.”
After he left, I expected to feel anxious.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
Maybe because for seven months I had lived inside uncertainty.
Now facts were appearing.
Imperfect facts.
Complicated facts.
But facts all the same.
