acting like family holding her is dangerous.”
My incision throbbed.
Grace made a soft sound inside the carrier.
I wanted my medication.
Water.
Darkness.
Silence.
More than anything, I wanted the recovery room I had prepared downstairs.
Caleb touched my elbow.
“Come upstairs.”
I pulled away.
“I set up downstairs.”
He went completely still.
That was the second warning.
During the final month of pregnancy, my sister and I had converted the downstairs guest room into a recovery space.
Fresh sheets.
A recliner.
Grace’s bassinet.
Nursing pillow.
Postpartum supplies.
Medication
