That was worse.
My mom used to say anger still meant something. If a man got loud, at least he was still in the room. At least he was feeling something. What Eric gave me instead was a flat look and a silence so cold it made the whole hospital room feel different.
Our son was less than three hours old. I still had an IV in my arm. My body felt wrecked. He was lying on my chest in that wrinkled hospital blanket, tiny hand twisted in my gown, breathing those little newborn breaths like the world had never done anything cruel.
The neurologist stood by the bed and used that careful voice doctors use when they’re about to change your life.
“There’s some motor impairment,” she said. “We can’t know everything today. He’ll need follow-up, therapy, support, and time before we understand the full picture.”
I nodded like she was telling me where to fill a prescription.
