Ten minutes later Danielle showed up with a stroller, an oversized diaper bag, and that same smug half-smile she had worn since childhood whenever our parents took something from me and handed it to her.
She looked at my swollen face, my tangled hair, the half-zipped suitcase on the floor, and Valerie crying in the bassinet.
Then she smiled wider.
Finally, she said. I get the room without your drama.
I do not remember making it down the stairs.
I remember the cold air hitting my skin.
I remember my hands shaking so badly that I almost dropped the car seat.
I remember standing on the sidewalk in a loose nightgown and cardigan, dizzy and humiliated, trying not to collapse while Valerie cried and a hot, frightening ache spread under the bandage across my stomach.
And I remember the sound of Matthew’s car turning the corner.
He braked so hard the tires screamed.
He jumped out before the engine was even fully off, one pharmacy bag still hanging from his hand. Then he saw me.
My face.
My hair.
The suitcase at my feet.
The newborn.
The way I could not stand up straight.
He went white first.
Then still.
He came toward me and asked what happened, but I only managed three words.
They kicked me out.
Matthew looked at me for one second longer. Then he slowly raised his eyes toward the apartment door, where my mother, my father, and Danielle were all still standing there as if nothing monstrous had happened.
I expected shouting.
I expected rage.
