“A husband who wants to protect his wife is a blessing, Evelyn,” she said, her voice dropping into a quieter tone. “Your father never noticed if I was standing or sitting during those final weeks.”
“Nathan changed our medical portal password last night without asking me,” I said.
My mother paused, her hand hovering over the cabinet handle. The small kitchen grew quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
“I am sure he was just trying to save you the trouble of logging in,” she said, though her shoulders tightened.
“He told me he wanted to streamline our digital files so I would not have to manage the administrative details,” I said.
“Well, that sounds very thoughtful,” she said, though she still did not turn around to look at me.
I looked down at my wrist, my fingers finding the cold metal of my watch. “I had to ask him three times just to get the confirmation number for our next ultrasound appointment.”
“He is a developer, Evelyn, he is used to managing projects from start to finish,” she said.
“I am his wife, Mom, not a project.”
She turned around then, her eyes showing a trace of worry that she quickly tried to blink away. “Just let him help you, please. A young family needs stability more than absolute independence.”
The drive to the Briar Hill Fertility Center was quiet, save for the hum of the heater against our boots. Nathan parked the sedan on the third level of the garage, where the automated machine printed out a ticket for a thirty-five dollar parking fee.
The lobby of the fertility center smelled of industrial pine cleaner and old paper. Nathan walked three paces ahead of me, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the polished linoleum floor.
I took a seat in one of the blue plastic chairs near the window, watching the gray autumn light filter through the glass. The air in the waiting room was dry and warm, making the synthetic wool of my coat feel heavy.
