Baby Hope was asleep in the bassinet by the window. Gabriel was down the hall, tucked under his dinosaur blanket, and I kept my voice low because of him, not because of Ryan.
My kitchen felt like a small courtroom.
“You don’t get to just show up,” I said.
“Ivy, please. Let me talk.”
“Talk? I’ve been up since 4 a.m. with a baby you left in my arms.”
My brother flinched. I wanted him to.
“The doctors said surgeries,” he started. “Plural. They said therapies, braces, specialists for years. I heard the numbers, and I can’t breathe.”
“Let me talk.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“I know.”
“You held her for 10 seconds and handed her back like a receipt.”
“I know, Ivy.”
I gripped the edge of the counter because if I didn’t, I was going to throw something.
“It’s a condition we can work on, Ryan. Dr. Patel called yesterday. It appears to be a milder form. The baby will need surgery and follow-up care, but the doctors are optimistic about her prognosis. The doctors are also optimistic about her development and quality of life. And you walked out of that room as if she were a defect.”
