She was strict.
She had raised three children.
She didn’t tolerate disrespect.
She believed children needed discipline.
Whenever I’d complained about something she’d said to our daughter, he’d smiled and told me, “That’s just Grandma.”
But my daughter hadn’t said “Dad will be mad.”
She hadn’t said “Dad won’t believe me.”
She had said:
He’ll tell Grandma.
As if Grandma was the person who couldn’t be allowed to know.
The door opened.
My husband stepped into the hallway.
“What are you two whispering about?”
The pediatrician looked at him.
“We’re discussing your daughter’s care.”
He stared at me.
“Can I talk to you alone?”
“No.”
His face hardened.
“Seriously?”
“Our daughter doesn’t want to be separated from me.”
“She needs to hear that her father isn’t some kind of monster.”
I looked past him.
My daughter was sitting on the exam table, still wrapped in the blanket.
