I stared through the glass doors at the glowing hospital lobby.
“How long is that?”
“Claire.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Another contraction started.
The nurse reached me.
“Ma’am, can you sit?”
I handed her my bag.
Adrian was still talking.
“Just don’t turn this into another argument about my mother.”
Something inside me went completely quiet.
For eight years, I had tried to keep peace between Adrian and Margaret.
I had told myself that families came with difficult personalities.
That Adrian’s habit of calling Margaret before making decisions was merely closeness.
That her insults were generational.
That her constant questions about our mortgage, my salary and our savings were simply nosiness.
I had excused a thousand small things.
