When the reading was done, Elise smiled gently, “You’re healing well.” Olivia murmured a thank-you, clutching the baby close. Her shoulders stayed rigid, as if reassurance itself had become something dangerous to trust.
Later that day, the social worker stopped by. Elise lingered in the hallway, listening through the slightly ajar door. Olivia’s voice carried in fragments. It seemed steady but rehearsed. “Everything’s fine. Daniel’s the protective kind. He just worries I’ll overdo it.”
The words were calm, but Elise thought she caught the tremor underneath, like a wire straining under weight. The social worker left satisfied, clipboard full of ticked boxes, and Elise felt a flash of frustration. How neatly could fear masquerade as stability?
When Elise entered again to deliver medication, Olivia was folding baby clothes with slow precision. She looked up and said, “They always think something’s wrong.” Elise wanted to say, Because something feels wrong love, but she swallowed it, choosing to smile silently rather than to confront.
That afternoon, Daniel appeared unannounced. Elise watched from the nurses’ station as he stepped into the room. Olivia’s posture changed immediately—shoulders up and smile fixed. Her phone screen lit up once, then she deleted something before he noticed. Then she turned it face down. Elise caught the subtle but unmistakable gesture.
When Daniel finally left, Olivia’s laughter followed him down the corridor. It was thin, strained, and ended too soon. Elise leaned against the counter, exhaustion sinking in like gravity. She couldn’t tell whether she was imagining danger or witnessing it unfold in slow motion.
Top Articles
