His face looked completely different.
“We need to think about our future,” he said.
“Our future?”
He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“We’re only twenty-four. We know nothing about raising a child with special needs.”
I immediately started crying.
“He’s still our son.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
Michael looked toward the door.
Then he began listing everything that could go wrong.
Medical appointments.
Therapy.
Money.
School.
People judging us.
The possibility that our lives would never look the way we had planned.
After nearly seventeen hours of labor, I was completely exhausted, and every frightening thing he said seemed heavier than the last.
By sunrise, I barely recognized myself.
Then a hospital social worker entered the room.
She was carrying several documents.
Michael had already spoken to her.
That was the first thing that truly felt wrong.
“How long have you been talking about this?” I asked him.
