Packing took twenty minutes because twenty minutes was how long it took a woman fresh from abdominal surgery to move through a room while holding back sobs and trying not to collapse. Wendy laid Paige in the bassinet long enough to grab diapers, wipes, extra swaddles, her medication, nursing pads, loose sweatpants, a stained robe, chargers, the little knitted blanket Mitchell’s aunt had mailed from Asheville. Every thirty seconds she had to stop and breathe through the burn. Her mother stood in the doorway watching with crossed arms like a hotel manager timing a late checkout.
There was no help offered. No lifting. No apology. Not even false urgency.
Just that foot tapping.
When Wendy finally made it down the stairs, she did so sideways, one hand on the banister, one hand against her abdomen, Paige’s car seat hanging from the crook of her arm because pride and pain together make people attempt stupid things. Her vision tunneled at the edges. Sweat soaked her shirt. Her knees felt unreliable.
Outside, the driveway was already filling with Cheryl’s SUV.