“I can’t.”
“Yes.”
“You can.”
“You do not get to turn ‘I can’t’ into everybody else’s problem.”
He put his face in his hands.
“When the doctor started talking about specialists…”
I stared.
He continued.
“Possible surgery.”
“Follow-ups.”
“Therapy.”
“Whatever else comes.”
“I heard money.”
My anger became almost physical.
“That is your daughter.”
“I know.”
“You looked at her for fifteen seconds.”
“I know.”
“You gave her back to me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
His voice cracked.
“Because for one horrible second I saw an exit.”
I stopped.
“What?”
He was crying now.
Not loudly.
The kind of crying someone does when they hate themselves too much to ask for comfort.
