Not now.
My female offspring could have forfeited an organ. Could have gone septic. Could have been in irreversible distress—and he entered Not now as though this constituted a scheduling interference.
I did not dispute. I did not implore. I executed what I should’ve executed the initial sequence he selected his comfort over Emma’s distress.
I contacted my sibling, Rachel, and stated, “Can you come to the hospital? And can you bring the lockbox key from my drawer at home?”
I contacted my companion Sophia who labored at a judicial office and stated, “I need a family attorney today.”
And I contacted the medical facility social helper and informed her, serenely, “My husband is not a safe decision-maker for my child. Please flag that.”
Two hours subsequently, Dr. Turner emerged from the surgical theatre, cap in his palm, eyes fatigued but relieved. “She’s stable,” he stated. “We removed the mass successfully. The ovary looks viable. She’s going to recover.”
My knees nearly dissolved. Rachel folded her limbs around me before I could collapse.
When Emma awakened in restoration, groggy but alive, she whispered, “Mom?” and I held her palm as though it constituted the lone actual entity remaining in the universe.
“You were brave,” I informed her. “I’m proud of you.”
Later that twilight—after the attendant validated Emma was resting—I stepped into the corridor and contacted Jason back.
