“We need to keep the bedside table clear for medical supplies,” she said.
“It can stay in the corner,” Aaron said, his voice tightening. “It doesn’t take up much room.”
Rachel looked at me, then back at Aaron, before stepping away from the bed with her clipboard.
“I will be back in thirty minutes to check your dilation,” she said.
When the door clicked shut, the silence returned, heavier than before.
“You should not have brought that in here,” I said.
“It belongs to him,” Aaron said, his hand resting on the wooden train.
“The baby isn’t even here yet,” I said.
“He will be,” Aaron said. “And he should have things that last.”
By eight o’clock, the morning sun was yellow and bright against the white plaster wall. Aaron sat in the vinyl chair, holding a small pink slip of paper that he had taken from his breast pocket.
“The paint was forty-four dollars a gallon,” he said, looking at the receipt from the hardware store. “I bought three cans of the blue. The hard part was getting the primer to stick over the old lavender walls in the girls’ room.”
