Clara stayed past her shift, anchored to the young mother’s fragility. Lily’s silence felt like a defense. Hours later, as dawn broke, she finally relented. “Maybe my mom,” she whispered, almost as if confessing a crime.
But the arrival of her mother, Eleanor, brought no comfort. Eleanor swept in, polished and detached, wearing a thin, controlled smile. She signed every hospital form placed before her, completely bypassing Clara and the doctor. “We’ll handle everything at home,” she announced briskly, her tone final and dismissive.
Lily looked smaller beside her, shoulders slumped, nodding automatically. Eleanor’s calm felt rehearsed, like a performance. The only genuine, fragile thing in the room was the infant resting in Lily’s tired arms.
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