You simply live inside it.
“What happened to my baby?”
her face.
Not anger.
Fear.
“Tyler,” she whispered. “What happened?”
He took a long breath.
“Claire’s baby was born very sick.”
My knees weakened.
I sat down.
The hospital room returned to me.
The harsh lights.
Nurses moving quickly.
Someone telling me there was a problem.
Then anesthesia.
Then waking hours later with Tyler beside me.
Except—
No.
Not Tyler.
I had known Tyler socially by then, but we had only begun dating months after Mason’s birth.
Hadn’t we?
My memories suddenly seemed covered in fog.
A nurse had brought Mason to me later that morning.
I remembered asking why he looked different.
Did I?
My chest tightened.
I remembered a nurse telling me newborn swelling changed quickly.
Or had my mother told me that years later?
Memory is strange.
When you trust your life, you don’t interrogate every detail.
