"It's raining, Mom. Drive home safely, okay? Text me when you get there."
I hung up quickly before my voice could betray me.
The phone screen went dark. The rain kept falling. Somewhere inside the hospital, a door opened and closed, and a slice of warm light cut across the wet pavement before vanishing.
Once the call ended, I took a deep breath and tried to hold everything in. I pressed my back against the pillar. I closed my eyes. I told myself I was strong, that I had a plan, that I had sent the evidence, that the fixer would call me tomorrow, that my daughter would be born into something better than this.
But no matter how hard I tried, the tears finally spilled over.
They came without sound at first. Just heat on my cheeks, mixing with the cold rain, indistinguishable from the weather to anyone passing by. Then my shoulders began to shake. Then my breath came in short, ragged pulls that I couldn't control, couldn't quiet, couldn't stop.