“I was dramatic at one forty-three this morning,” I said. “When my water broke and you didn’t answer. I was dramatic in the car when Eli drove through snow because I couldn’t sit upright. I was dramatic when the baby’s heart rate dropped. I was dramatic when I pushed your daughter into the world without you. Right now, I am being very clear.”
Ryan’s face flushed.
“This is not the time.”
“You made it the time when you walked into my hospital room and requested a paternity test before asking if I was alive.”
His eyes darted to Dana, then to the door, as if the room itself had betrayed him by containing witnesses.
“Lower your voice,” he said.
That sentence should have made me shrink.
It had worked before.
At restaurants. At his office parties. In arguments where he called my feelings irrational and then punished me with silence until I apologized for having them.
