“You’re leaving?” I asked.

“I’ve been here twenty minutes,” Patricia said.

“I have things to do, Claire.

Don’t be completely unhelpful.”

She pressed the silver call button and stood facing the steel elevator doors.

She didn’t ask about Rosalie’s weight, her oxygen levels, or when the doctors thought I could hold her.

By seven that evening, Kevin had brought our six-year-old daughter, Brooklyn, to the cramped family waiting room down the hall.

It had a low ceiling, fluorescent tube lights, and a small blue couch with worn velvet cushions.