Ten minutes later Danielle showed up with a stroller, an oversized diaper bag, and that same smug half-smile she had worn since childhood whenever our parents took something from me and handed it to her.
She looked at my swollen face, my tangled hair, the half-zipped suitcase on the floor, and Valerie crying in the bassinet.
Then she smiled wider.
Finally, she said. I get the room without your drama.
I do not remember making it down the stairs.
I remember the cold air hitting my skin.
I remember my hands shaking so badly that I almost dropped the car seat.
I remember standing on the sidewalk in a loose nightgown and cardigan, dizzy and humiliated, trying not to collapse while Valerie cried and a hot, frightening ache spread under the bandage across my stomach.
And I remember the sound of Matthew’s car turning the corner.
He braked so hard the tires screamed.
