I stood up, stepping back to give them room, my boots clicking against the hardwood.
Uncle Robert was still standing by the fireplace, his phone clutched in his hand, looking at my mother as if she had committed a social indiscretion.
“Is she going to be alright?” he asked.
Nobody answered him.
The waiting room at Methodist Hospital smelled of industrial floor wax and stale coffee.
It was nearly nine in the evening when the double doors from the street swung open and Chloe walked in.
She was carrying the white wicker bassinet we had left at my mother’s brownstone weeks ago.
It was packed to the brim with Liam’s winter blankets, his spare bottles, and a thick stack of blue legal-sized folders.
She looked smaller, her shoulders hunched inside a gray wool coat that was missing its top button.
She set the bassinet down on the linoleum floor beside my chair.
