Sylvia remained standing for another moment.
Finally, she sat too.
I stayed standing.
“This is what happens now.”
Neither spoke.
“We wait for the doctor.”
I looked at Ethan.
“You stay.”
He nodded slightly.
“When the doctor examines June, you are in the room.”
Still no response.
“If she is admitted, you stay for that process.”
I continued.
“If she is discharged with instructions, you hear those instructions too.”
I looked at him.
“Your presentation may happen tomorrow or it may not. That is between you and your employer.”
Then I glanced at our daughter.
“Your baby has a 104-degree fever. That is the only priority that matters tonight.”
Sylvia started.
“Rachel—”
“I’m not finished.”
For once, she stopped.
“I know you love Ethan.”
Her expression shifted.
“I have never doubted that.”
Then I said the part I had avoided for three years.
“But I have watched what your version of love has allowed him to remain.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means every time life became difficult, you rushed in.”
She stared at me.
“When he was uncomfortable, you fixed the discomfort.”
“When he needed to learn that another person’s needs mattered just as much as his, you reminded him that his needs came first.”
Her face tightened.
