“Then help me understand on the way. Because I’ve known you for 20 years, and I don’t recognize you right now.”
Diane’s shoulders dropped, just a little.
“For weeks, Rachel. For weeks, I’ve watched him walk in here and make her laugh, eat, and sit up. And I stand at the foot of her bed, and I can’t get her to drink water.”
I stared at her.
“Diane…”
“Aaron shows up with snacks, and my daughter lights up. I show up with her favorite blanket from when she was six, and she just rolls over.”
“That isn’t his fault,” I said, defending my son.
“I know that,” my friend whispered. “I know that. But knowing it doesn’t make it stop hurting.”
She wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, as if she were angry at her own tears for showing up.
