I imagined him standing inside the nursery.
Calling out for me.
Seeing the carpet.
Realizing everything too late.
For one second, a strange feeling moved through me.
Not pity.
Not satisfaction.
Something heavier than both.
The nauseating understanding that someone could shatter a family in a single moment and still fail to grasp the damage until he was forced to stand in the middle of it. Familycounseling services
“He thought we were dead,” I said.
Daniel did not answer.
The nurse quietly slipped out of the room.
I turned my gaze toward the window. Beyond the glass, snow drifted down softly and silently beneath the hospital lights.
“Where is Ethan?” I asked.
“I’ll ask if they can bring him soon.”
“I need to see him.”
“They said you need rest.”
“I need my son.”
Daniel did not argue with me.
Ten minutes later, a nurse rolled in a clear hospital bassinet.
Ethan was lying inside, wrapped in a white blanket with tiny blue stripes. His cheeks had color again, his lips looked full, and his tiny fists were tucked beneath his chin.
The sight of him shattered me.
The nurse carefully placed him against my chest.
My arms trembled as I held him.
“Hi, baby,” I whispered. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”
Ethan made a tiny sound and turned his face toward me.
I cried into his soft hair.
Daniel stood near the door, watching us with red eyes.
That was how my brother found us an hour later.
Nathan rushed into the room like a storm barely held inside a human body.
He had flown in from Seattle the moment Daniel called him. His coat was wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and his face looked as though he had aged ten years in a single day.
“Emma.”
He crossed the room in three strides, then stopped beside my bed, afraid to touch me.
“I’m okay,” I said, though that was only partly true.
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