She said I had no idea what I had done.
I sat on the edge of the bed with Olivia in my lap and checked her nose again.
The bleeding slowed, but I still watched her pupils, her breathing, the way she clung to my shirt.
At 2:06 p.m., my phone buzzed.
Michael’s name lit up the screen.
I answered because some part of me still hoped.
Not much.
But enough.
The first thing he said was not, “Is Olivia okay?”
It was, “What did you do to my mother?”
For a moment, the room went very still.
I could hear him breathing hard.
I could hear noise behind him, maybe a hotel lobby or retreat center hallway, the kind with carpet and vending machines and paper coffee cups on side tables.
I held Olivia closer.
“Your daughter is hurt,” I said.
“My mother says you hit her twice and canceled her medical card,” he snapped. “Are you out of your mind?”
