I wrapped both arms around him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“No.” He pulled back and looked at me with desperate, red-rimmed eyes. “Mommy, he took the baby from her.”
I froze.
“He took the baby, and she was crying, and he said, ‘This is the only way this works.’”
My mouth went dry. “Did you see the baby’s face?”
Max nodded once. “She had the pink hat. Not the flower hat.”
At the hospital, our daughter had been wearing two little hats the nurses had switched out because of spit-up. One plain pink.
One white with tiny flowers.
I hadn’t told Max that.
I don’t remember what I said next. I know I tucked him into bed. I know I sat beside him until he fell asleep with his fist twisted in my shirt. I know I went downstairs feeling like I was walking through water.
