The hospital gave us a small family waiting area later that night.
There were a few chairs, a vending machine, and a table covered with old magazines.
A television was mounted high on the wall.
Its sound was turned down so low that the moving pictures seemed disconnected from the room.
Daniel bought a bottle of water.
I couldn't drink much.
My throat felt tight, and my stomach had begun to ache from the hours of fear.
Patricia sat across from us.
She had stopped pacing.
She looked older than she had at home.
Her cardigan was wrinkled, and her hair had come loose around her face.
I could see that she was frightened.
I could also see that she wanted the night to become something different from what it had been.
After a long silence, she spoke.
"Emily, I know you hate me right now."
I looked at her.
"I don't have time to think about hating you."
She blinked.
"I'm worried about Lily too."
I nodded.
"Then we agree on something."
Patricia pressed her hands together.
"I raised Daniel by myself for several years after his father left."
I knew the story.
She had told it at family dinners, during arguments, and whenever Daniel tried to set a boundary.
She had worked long hours.
She had struggled with money.
She had made sacrifices.
I had never denied any of that.
But I didn't understand why she was bringing it up now.
"I did everything for him," she continued. "I never let anyone hurt him."
I looked at her.
"And you think that means you can hurt me?"
She shook her head.
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
She didn't answer immediately.
I watched her struggle to find words that might make me understand her without requiring her to face what she had done.
Finally, she said, "I was tired. The crying was driving me crazy."
I looked down at my hands.
I had been tired too.
I had been listening to Lily cry for nearly forty minutes.
I had checked her diaper, fed her, and carried her through the hallway.
I had been exhausted enough to forget what I was doing from one minute to the next.
But I had not struck anyone.
"I was tired too," I said.
Patricia looked at me.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
My voice remained quiet.
"I was trying to calm my daughter. You could have offered to help. You could have woken Daniel. You could have gone back to your room."
She stared at the table.
"Instead, you hit me."
She began crying again.
Daniel shifted in his chair.
I knew he wanted to comfort her.
It was a habit built over years.
But he remained where he was.
Patricia wiped her cheeks.
"I didn't think she would fall."
I felt my chest tighten.
That was the closest she had come to acknowledging the truth.
"You knew I was holding her."
"Yes."
"You knew I was standing on the hardwood floor."
"Yes."
"And you chose to hit me anyway."
She looked away.
"I lost my temper."
I nodded slowly.
"That is what happened."
She seemed to expect me to say something else.
Perhaps she wanted me to tell her that losing her temper explained everything.
Perhaps she wanted me to say that she was still a good grandmother.
I couldn't give her either answer.
I didn't know what kind of grandmother she would be in the future.
I only knew what she had done that night.
Daniel finally spoke.
"Mom, you have to stop asking Emily to make this easier for you."
Patricia turned toward him.
"I am not asking her to do that."
"You asked her to tell the doctors it was an accident."
"I was frightened."
"So was she."
Patricia looked at him with disbelief.
For years, Daniel had protected her feelings without being asked.
Now he was telling her that her fear did not make her behavior acceptable.
I could see how much it unsettled her.
She turned back toward me.
"Do you want me to lose my son over this?"
I stared at her.
I couldn't believe she had found a way to make herself the person at risk.
"I'm not asking Daniel to stop being your son."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to accept responsibility for what you did."
She shook her head.
"I have said I am sorry."
"You have said you didn't mean for Lily to fall. You have said I was exhausted. You have said I should be careful what I tell people."
I paused.
"You haven't simply admitted that you hit me."
Patricia looked down.
For a while, nobody spoke.
I could hear the vending machine humming behind us.
The ordinary sound reminded me of the refrigerator at home.
The bottle of formula.
The folded towel beside the sink.
I had been living among ordinary objects when everything changed.
Now I was sitting in a hospital, trying to explain that a person could be frightened and still be responsible for what she had done.
Patricia finally whispered, "I slapped you."
The words were so quiet that I almost missed them.
I looked at her.
She didn't look up.
"I shouldn't have done it."
I waited.
She wiped her face again.
"I was angry, and I hit you."
It wasn't enough to repair anything.
It wasn't enough to make me trust her.
But it was the first time she had said what happened without immediately changing the subject.
I nodded.
"That's the truth."
She looked at me.
"Can you forgive me?"
I couldn't answer.
Not then.
My daughter was still in critical condition.
I didn't know whether she would recover, whether she would suffer lasting injuries, or whether we would ever return to an ordinary life.
Forgiveness was too large a question for that moment.
"I don't know," I said.
Patricia's face tightened.
I continued.
"I can't decide that tonight."
She looked away.
Daniel took a breath.
"Mom, you need to give her time."
Patricia didn't reply.
I leaned back in my chair.
For the first time since the police arrived, I felt no urge to explain myself.
I didn't need Patricia to agree with my feelings.
I didn't need Daniel to translate my pain into words his mother could accept.
I needed Lily to have a chance.
I needed the doctors to continue their work.
And I needed to stop treating forgiveness as something I owed people simply because they had finally admitted what they did.
A nurse came to the waiting area and told us there would be another update when the medical team had more information.
I thanked her.
Then I stood and walked toward the hallway.
Daniel followed.
Patricia stayed behind.
I didn't know whether she was thinking about Lily or about what would happen when the police investigation continued.
I didn't know whether her apology would last beyond that night.
I only knew that I had heard her admit the truth.
For now, I carried that small fact with me.
It didn't bring my daughter home.
It didn't erase the injury.
But it meant that, at least once, Patricia had stopped asking me to pretend.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Questions About Lily’s Injury Became More Detailed, and I Had to Face the Difference Between an Accident and the Choice That Caused It
I Thought the Worst Part of Being a New Mother Was Losing Sleep, Until My Mother-in-Law Made One Cruel Decision for Me
Part 10 of 20
