As she stood to leave, she paused at the doorway, looking smaller than Mike had ever seen her. “I love her,” she said softly. “I would never hurt her.” “I know,” the doctor replied. Mike watched her walk down the hallway, unease settling in his chest—not because Eleanor seemed guilty, but because for the first time, no one in the room sounded certain anymore.
Whatever was hurting his daughter hadn’t been explained away. Only narrowed. The waiting stretched. Not the dramatic kind—no alarms, no shouting—just the slow drag of hours marked by nurses coming and going, IV bags checked, charts updated. Maxine slept, her small body curled in on itself, one hand wrapped loosely around Carrie’s finger.