“That is one of the questions we need your husband to answer.”
I wanted to scream at him.
Instead, I asked about my daughter.
“She is stable,” the detective said. “The medical team is still monitoring her closely.”
Stable.
It was the word everyone used when they wanted to give you hope without promising anything.
I thanked her and went back toward my daughter’s room.
She looked impossibly small beneath the hospital blanket.
Her eyes opened when I sat beside her.
“Mommy?”
“I’m here.”
She swallowed carefully and reached for my hand.
“Are they mad at me?”
“No.”
She looked at me as though she did not believe it.
“You didn’t do anything to deserve what happened.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
Then she whispered, “The glass wasn’t why.”
I leaned closer.
“What do you mean?”
She looked toward the door before answering.
“Daddy was talking to Grandma before I dropped it.”
