She never showed her face during my hospital stay, claiming her own health was too frail.
Yet, she was the calmest person in the storm.
Heading to the kitchen, she returned with a bowl of some medicinal broth.
"You need to build your strength back up after the hospital. I made you this special tonic. Have it while it's hot," she insisted.
"Thanks for the effort," I muttered, not wanting to stick around, and took the broth toward my study.
She caught my arm, fishing for information, "The doctor mentioned you've lost some memories. Do you really not recall how you fell?"
"I don't remember. How did it happen?" I feigned ignorance with wide, innocent eyes, curious about her version of the story.
"It was that darn handrail on the stairs; it was loose. You grabbed it and down you went. But don't worry, I've had it fixed!" She spoke with such conviction, that you'd think it was the absolute truth.
As if I could forget such a thing! Not in this lifetime!
In the study, I dumped the broth in disgust.
Three months ago, I was heavily pregnant, seven months along.
Lucas had secretly confirmed through a doctor friend that our baby wasn't a boy.