I didn’t wish on them now. I didn’t think I’d ever wish on anything again.
I cried all night. Not loud. I’d learned that in the hospital. I cried into my pillow so it wouldn’t wake her.
At three in the morning, Evelyn woke up hungry. I picked her up and sat in the old rocking chair by the window and fed her in the dark. The house was so quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs and a dog barking somewhere far away.
The door creaked open. My mom came in, in her bathrobe, and sat on the edge of the bed without turning on the light.“Can’t sleep either?” I whispered.
“Not a wink.”
We sat there in the dark for a while. Evelyn made tiny swallowing sounds.
“Mom,” I said. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to rest. And heal. And take care of this little girl. And let us take care of you.”
