Ben and Diane were standing on the doorstep.
They were both crying.
I’d never seen Ben look like this. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were red and swollen, with dark purple circles under them. He was wearing the same shirt he’d worn to the hospital. I recognized the coffee stain on the pocket. His hands were trembling.
Diane looked twenty years older. Her perfect silver bob was flat and messy. She was clutching her purse against her chest with both arms, like a shield.
“Claire,” Ben said. His voice was barely there.
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, holding the door.
“Please,” he said. “Let us see Evelyn. This is very important. If we don’t, we’re finished.”
I felt something rise up in me. Something hot and furious. It had been sitting under the sadness for three days, waiting.
“You saw her,” I said. “You saw her. Then you threw us out. You put my clothes in trash bags on the lawn. You hid behind a curtain while your newborn daughter sat in the car. Why are you here?”
