I finally pulled into the hospital lot and put the car in park.
“Do not apologize for being hurt,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Not to me. Not to them. Not to anyone.”
At the hospital intake desk, I used my nurse voice.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Precise.
My daughter was eight weeks pregnant.
She had been shoved down stairs.
She had visible marks on her throat, facial swelling, rib pain, and abdominal tenderness.
She needed evaluation and documentation.
The woman behind the desk looked from Maya to me, and whatever she saw in my face made her stop typing casually.
A nurse came out in blue scrubs and took Maya back.
I followed until they made me wait.
That hallway smelled like disinfectant and burned coffee.
I had spent half my life in hallways like that.
This was the first time I felt like the walls were closing in on me.
