Then I heard the ventilator.
I looked at Rosalie.
Still there.
Still connected.
Still breathing.
The monitor was steady.
The tubes appeared to be in place.
I let myself exhale.
Kevin was no longer in the chair, and I assumed he had stepped into the hallway or gone for coffee.
Brooklyn shifted beneath her blanket.
Her eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep.
Then her face changed.
Fear moved across it so quickly that I sat up despite the pull in my incision.
“Mom,” she whispered.
I leaned toward her.
“What is it, pumpkin?”
She gripped the blanket with both hands.
“Grandma came here last night.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What do you mean?”
“The door made a little sound, and I woke up.”
Brooklyn glanced toward the NICU door, then back at the incubator.
“I pretended I was asleep because I didn’t want her to make me leave.”
