I couldn't tell how much time had passed.
The clock above the corridor kept moving, but the minutes no longer felt separate.
There was only waiting.
Every time someone came through the doors, I looked up.
Every time they walked past without stopping, I felt my hope sink again.
Daniel eventually moved his chair closer to mine.
"Emily, can we talk?"
I looked at him.
"About what?"
He glanced toward his mother.
Patricia was sitting several chairs away, staring at the floor.
"About what happened at home."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"We already talked about it."
"I know, but I need to understand."
I wanted to ask why he hadn't needed to understand before he began questioning me.
Instead, I waited.
He took a breath.
"Mom says she was trying to get you to calm down."
I stared at him.
"I was holding Lily."
"I know."
"Then what does that have to do with anything?"
He rubbed his hands together.
"She says you were both upset."
I looked toward the treatment room.
Our daughter was somewhere beyond those doors, and Daniel was repeating his mother's explanation as though the most important thing was to find a version of events everyone could accept.
"She hit me," I said.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I heard you."
"Then stop telling me what she says."
He looked wounded by that.
I almost apologized out of habit.
The apology reached the back of my throat and stopped there.
I had done that too many times.
I had apologized when Patricia criticized my cooking.
I had apologized when she complained that I spent too much time resting after Lily was born.
I had apologized for leaving baby supplies on the kitchen counter, even when I had planned to put them away as soon as I finished feeding our daughter.
I had treated every disagreement as something I was responsible for repairing.
But I couldn't repair this by taking the blame.
Daniel leaned forward.
"She didn't mean for Lily to get hurt."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"I don't know what she meant."
That was the honest answer.
I couldn't see inside Patricia's mind.
I didn't know whether she had understood what might happen when she struck me.
I knew only what she had done and what followed.
"I know she hit me," I continued. "I know Lily fell. I know what the doctor told us."
Daniel swallowed.
"I just don't want this to destroy our family."
I felt a strange, tired sadness.
Our family had been standing in that hallway long before Lily fell.
It had been there when Patricia believed she could speak to me however she wanted.
It had been there when Daniel heard complaints about his wife and chose not to challenge them.
It had been there whenever I decided that avoiding an argument was more important than saying what I believed.
The hospital had not created those problems.
It had made them impossible to ignore.
"I don't want our family destroyed either," I said.
He looked relieved for half a second.
Then I continued.
"But pretending nothing happened won't save it."
His expression changed.
He sat quietly beside me.
I wondered what he wanted me to say.
Perhaps he wanted me to promise that I wouldn't cooperate with the police.
Perhaps he wanted me to tell him that his mother had made a mistake and that we could all go home when the doctors were finished.
Perhaps he didn't know what he wanted.
I couldn't decide that for him.
Patricia rose from her chair and approached us.
"Daniel, I think we should go home for a little while."
I turned toward her.
She glanced at me, then back at her son.
"There's nothing we can do here."
I couldn't believe she had said it.
Lily was receiving emergency treatment, and Patricia was already thinking about leaving.
Daniel didn't stand.
"Mom, I'm staying."
She looked surprised.
Then she turned toward me.
"Are you satisfied now?"
I felt the question settle between us.
For years, I had tried to make Patricia satisfied.
I had hoped that if I was respectful enough, patient enough, and accommodating enough, she would eventually treat me as someone who belonged in her family.
Now she was asking whether I was satisfied while my newborn daughter remained in the care of emergency doctors.
"No," I said.
My voice was quiet.
"I'm not satisfied."
Patricia stared at me.
"I want my daughter to be okay."
She looked away first.
For once, I didn't feel proud of winning an argument.
There was no victory in that hallway.
There was only a sick baby, a frightened father, and a woman who still couldn't admit what she had done.
Patricia returned to her chair.
Daniel remained beside me.
He didn't defend her again.
But he didn't apologize either.
I knew he was struggling.
I could see it in the way he kept rubbing his palms against his trousers and looking toward the doors.
I didn't mistake his fear for courage.
I didn't mistake his silence for agreement.
He would have to decide what kind of husband and father he intended to be.
I couldn't make that decision for him.
A nurse came by and asked whether I needed water.
I realized that my mouth was dry.
"Yes, please."
She brought me a small cup.
I held it between both hands, feeling its warmth.
I took one sip.
Then another.
The ordinary act of drinking water felt strange after everything that had happened.
I thought about the kitchen at home.
The bottle on the counter.
The little blanket in the car.
I wondered whether I would ever be able to stand in that hallway again without remembering the sound of Lily hitting the floor.
I knew the answer, though I didn't want to face it.
Some places never returned to being ordinary.
Some moments stayed with you, even when the room around them changed.
Daniel touched my arm lightly.
"Emily."
I turned.
"I'm sorry."
The words came so quietly that I almost missed them.
I looked at him.
"For what?"
He seemed unable to answer.
Maybe he was sorry he had hesitated.
Maybe he was sorry he had repeated Patricia's claims.
Maybe he was sorry that his mother had struck me.
I couldn't tell.
I needed more than a few words spoken in a hallway.
But I didn't demand an explanation.
Not then.
The doors remained closed.
And I stayed where I was, holding the little cup between my hands, waiting for someone to tell me how my daughter was doing.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Mark on My Cheek Was Fading, but the Things I Could No Longer Pretend Not to See Were Becoming Clear
The Night I Learned That Keeping the Peace Could Cost More Than I Was Willing to Lose
Part 6 of 24
