Dorothy stared at the wall of the hotel room and thought about how complicated women become when men teach them to measure their worth by winning the wrong contest.
“But if she can help protect the babies,” Dorothy said at last, “then she helps.”
That weekend, Doctor Prescott came by the hotel with a casserole and stayed to talk longer than she intended.
She sat at the little round table near the window while Margot slept in a portable bassinet between them.
“I keep replaying that night,” she admitted. “Every decision. Every second. I know professionally what happened. I know medically. But emotionally…” She shook her head. “I still feel like I failed her.”
Dorothy looked at the sleeping baby, then at the doctor.
“You didn’t put fear in her house,” Dorothy said quietly. “You didn’t do what killed the part of her that felt safe.”
Doctor Prescott’s eyes filled.
Sometimes Dorothy surprised herself with the ferocity of her own clarity. Widowhood had burned away her patience for misassigned guilt.