“He told me I was crazy,” Grandma said. “He said it was a storage room. He said there was no reason for it to have a window. He said the hospital didn’t have the budget for silly renovations.”
“What did you say?”
“I said it wasn’t a storage room. I said it was a room where women had their babies, and some of those babies died, and some of those babies were taken away. And I said that no mother, not ever again, should have to lie in that bed and stare at a blank white wall.” Grandma’s chin came up a little. “I told him I’d pay for it myself. All of it. Every penny. And if he said no, I’d go to the newspaper.”
“Did he say yes?”
“He said yes. On one condition. That nobody ever knew who paid for it. He didn’t want other nurses getting ideas.” She shook her head. “So it was an anonymous donation. And that summer, a man came with a saw and cut a hole in the back wall of Room 214. And they put in a little square window, two feet by two feet, looking out at the courtyard.”
