I stood up.
The nurse placed a hand gently on my arm.
“Don’t engage.”
But Diane kept talking.
“I know you’re tired. I know motherhood has been hard for you. Andrés and I only want what’s best for Emma.”
Andrés and I.
Not Emma’s father and I.
Not we.
Andrés and I.
As if I had already been removed from my own child’s life.
The doctor looked at me sharply.
“Has she said things like that before?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“All the time. That I’m overwhelmed. That I don’t know how to raise Emma. That Emma needs discipline. That I’m too emotional.”
Doctor Harris’s jaw tightened.
“And has your husband agreed?”
I looked toward the front of the clinic, where Andrés was still shouting my name.
I didn’t want to answer.
Because the answer humiliated me.
Because saying it out loud made it real.
“Yes,” I said. “Mostly.”
Emma touched my sleeve.
