“And tonight you drove forty minutes in the middle of the night to take a thirty-three-year-old man away from his sick four-month-old daughter because he was tired.”
“I was helping him.”
“You screamed at me in an emergency room and told me your son didn’t sign up for this.”
“He didn’t.”
“He became a father.”
“That is different—”
“There is no version of fatherhood that excludes sitting in an emergency room at two in the morning when your infant has a dangerous fever.”
“He has responsibilities.”
“Yes.”
I nodded toward June.
“She is one of them.”
“You can handle this.”
“Yes.”
That answer seemed to surprise her.
“I can handle it.”
I lowered my voice.
“I have been handling most of it for four months.”
Sylvia glanced at Ethan.
“I am not asking him to stay because I’m incapable.”
I looked at my husband.
“I am asking the man I married to stand beside me while I do something difficult.”
Sylvia turned toward her son.
“Ethan.”
He finally looked at her.
Something was changing in his face.
Guilt.
Confusion.
