He told me to open the door. He said I was upsetting the baby.
That change frightened me more than I expected.
A minute earlier, he had dragged me down a hallway.
Now he sounded as though I were the unreasonable person behind a locked door.
His mother joined him.
She reminded me that I had hit him with the stool.
I told her why.
He had dragged me down the hallway. I had been trying to get back to my son.
She told me to calm down.
I said no.
There was no speech behind it.
No argument.
Just no.
When I reached for the phone, the hospital wristband scraped against the sink.
I stared at it for half a second.
Three days before, nurses had checked that band before placing my son in my arms. It had represented something simple: these two people belonged together. Mother and baby. Matching information. Careful hands. A system designed to make sure the right child went to the right parent.
