“Stop making this worse than it is.”
The officer turned toward her.
“Ma’am, you just admitted the procedure was controlled. We have a newborn with chemical injuries, a container that appears to have held an unknown substance, and a notebook containing medical-style records. You’re not going to direct this conversation.”
She stared at him.
For once, she had nothing to say.
My husband looked toward her.
That was when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.
He was afraid of her.
Not worried about her.
Afraid.
I had spent months telling myself his strange silences were exhaustion, that his mother’s constant involvement was simply what happened when a family welcomed a new baby, that every uncomfortable conversation would eventually become easier.
But fear was different.
Fear meant there was something between them I had never been allowed to see.
The officer turned another page.
“These entries are dated before the child was born.”
