When we arrived at the hospital, Max, seemingly afraid that I might cause a scene, cautiously said, "Zoey is undergoing chemotherapy now. If you're angry, don't take it out on the child."
I ignored him. His words made it sound like I couldn't tell right from wrong.
He kept insisting that it wasn't the child's fault.
In the elevator, I couldn't hold back anymore and shouted, "Shut up!"
Max, a boss of a mid-sized company, hadn't been told to shut up in years.
"Mandy, don't be angry."
Ten years ago, when they planted this seed, did they ever think about whether I'd be angry?
Four years ago, when we got married and Zoey was already five or six, did he think about whether I'd be angry?
Even yesterday, when he took our daughter to the hospital for a blood test without consulting me, did he think about whether I'd be angry?
Now, he finally remembered.
The smell of disinfectant filled the hospital, a scent I despised. When we reached the room, I saw the little girl lying in a deep sleep.
There was no mistaking that she was Max's child. Her nose, mouth, and even the shape of her face was just like his.