They brought us into a small private room painted a cheerful shade of green that did nothing to reduce the tension. A nurse wearing gloves explained that it would be quick. She swabbed Ethan first. Then she turned to Leo.
I held my son upright against my chest while she gently rubbed the inside of his cheek.
He startled, turned red, and let out the most wounded little cry I had ever heard.
It wasn’t even loud.
That was what made it unbearable.
He sounded betrayed by the world.
I pressed him to me at once, rocking instinctively. “I know, baby. I know. Mommy’s here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan turn toward the window.
His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping.
The nurse finished and stepped back. “All done.”
Leo kept crying in thin, panicked bursts. Maya handed me a bottle, and I fed him right there in the chair until his eyelids drooped again and the tension drained out of his tiny body.
When I finally looked up, Ethan asked in a rough voice, “Did it hurt him?”
I stared at him.
Not because the question was offensive.
Because it was so late.
“He was startled,” I said. “He’s a baby.”
That answer seemed to hit harder than if I had been cruel.