The little girl lay on the hospital bed, her small body looking pitiful.
"Mommy, can you not tell Uncle Patrick I had an allergic reaction? Otherwise he won't buy me chocolate anymore." She paused, thinking. "Actually, it's Daddy's fault. He never lets me eat chocolate. If I'd eaten more of it, I wouldn't be allergic."
Hildegarde slumped against the headboard, exhaustion carved into her face.
Hearing her daughter mention "Daddy" brought Wilfred back to mind.
Her chest felt like it was stuffed with a stone.
"Wilfred, you bastard. You blocked my phone. Your daughter had an allergic reaction, and you didn't even care. Fine. You've got nerve!"
"Go ahead—don't ever come back!"
By the time Hilary's IV finished, it was already one in the morning.
Hildegarde drove her daughter home, too exhausted to even shower. She collapsed onto the bed and sank into a dead sleep.
At six a.m., she was jolted awake by her daughter's crying.
Normally, Hildegarde slept until eight-thirty sharp. When she woke, her toothpaste and warm water would already be laid out—Wilfred always prepared them.
But today, she was dragged from sleep at six.
Her head felt like it was about to split open.
"Marjorie, what's going on?"