“Get me divorce papers.”
There was no hesitation.
“I’ll have them drafted tonight.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Do not warn him.”
She gave a small laugh.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”
Nathan’s mother arrived the next morning.
Eleanor Caldwell entered my private recovery room wearing pearls and carrying white orchids.
Not pink.
Not yellow.
White.
Funeral flowers.
That felt appropriate.
She kissed the air beside my cheek and peered into the bassinet.
“So this is her.”
Her.
Not her granddaughter.
Not the baby.
Her.
“She has Nathan’s chin,” Eleanor said.
“No, she doesn’t.”
Eleanor blinked.
Then smiled tightly.
“Well. We’ll see.”
She sat beside my bed.
“Nathan told me you handled yesterday very maturely.”
I almost admired the audacity.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
She reached for my hand.
I moved it away.
Eleanor pretended not to notice.
“I know this is painful. But families like ours sometimes have complicated realities.”
“Affairs?”
She stiffened.
“Continuity.”
I stared at her.
“Is that what we call it now?”
“Audrey, please. Nathan’s son changes things.”
“My daughter changes things.”
