Not when I should have.
When I did.
Because someone locked a door.
My son spent several hours under observation.
By evening, he was breathing normally.
No neurological concerns.
No ongoing emergency.
The pediatrician smiled.
“He seems determined to make everybody worry for no reason.”
I laughed for the first time all day.
Then cried again.
My sister-in-law finally changed out of her wedding dress.
The hospital gave her blue scrubs.
The groom found a hoodie in the car.
They looked ridiculous.
I loved them for it.
“What happened to the wedding?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Postponed.”
“You had two hundred guests.”
“Two hundred and fourteen.”
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
“You could have finished.”
She looked at my baby.
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“If I had stood there saying vows while you were locked in a room because my mother decided my photographs mattered more than your child, I would hate every wedding picture for the rest of my life.”
I reached for her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“My water broke at your wedding.”
“So?”
I laughed.
“That is a fairly significant disruption.”
“You did not break your water on purpose.”
“I’m pretty talented.”
She smiled.
Then her expression darkened.
“She planned it.”
I looked at her.
“The planner showed me the recording.”
“You heard it?”
“Yes.”
My sister-in-law looked toward the door.
“Police heard it too.”
My stomach tightened.
“Police?”
“She was detained at the venue.”
“What?”
“Not arrested yet. Questioned.”
I stared.
My sister-in-law continued.
“The planner gave officers the recording. Security cameras show Mom pushing you into the corridor.”
I looked toward my baby.
Tiny fingers curled against the blanket.
“Does she know he’s okay?”
“I don’t know.”
A terrible thing happened inside me.
Part of me wanted her to know.
Another part wanted her to spend one night believing she might have caused something irreversible.
I hated that thought.
Then accepted that having an ugly thought was not the same as acting on it.
My sister-in-law seemed to understand.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight.”
“About what?”
“Charges. Family. My brother. Her.”
I looked toward the window.
“I’m tired of everybody deciding things for me.”
She nodded.
“Then don’t decide.”
That may have been the kindest advice anyone gave me that week.
My husband came in after midnight.
I had told the nurse he could.
Not because I had forgiven him.
Because our son was his too.
He approached the bassinet.
Stopped.
His shoulders shook.
He did not touch the baby until I said, “You can.”
Then he placed one finger against our son’s hand.
The tiny fingers closed around it.
My husband cried silently.
I watched.
Love did not disappear because anger arrived.
That was inconvenient.
I almost wished I could hate him.
Hatred would have simplified things.