“No,” I said. “Anything you say, you can say in front of him.”
Garrett stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Claire, you’re grieving. You’re not thinking clearly.”
The old me would have flinched.
The old me would have wondered if he was right.
The old me would have apologized for making a scene after my son died.
But the old me had died at 11:47 p.m.
“I’m thinking clearly for the first time in years.”
His mouth tightened.
“There are things you don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He glanced at my father.
My father folded his arms.
“Explain.”
Garrett exhaled. “Melissa doesn’t matter.”
A nurse at the desk looked up.
Even she knew that was the wrong thing to say.
I stared at him. “She mattered enough for you to ignore eighteen calls.”
“I didn’t ignore them. My phone was on silent.”
“While your child was sick?”
“I didn’t know he was sick.”
“Because you weren’t home.”
“I had needs too, Claire.”
The hallway went deathly silent.
The words hung there, obscene and unforgivable.
Even Garrett seemed to realize what he had said, because his face changed instantly.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
My father stepped forward.
