And then he said it, and I am not being dramatic, every hair on my arms stood up:
“After Daddy gave her the money, she took the bundle away.”
I said, “What bundle?”
His eyes filled.
“The crying one.”
I could not get air properly.
“Eli. Did you know the lady?”
He nodded.
“Who was she?”
His lip went. He said, “You know her too, Mommy.”
I stopped breathing entirely.
And then, whispering: “She came to see you in the hospital.”
“Eli, who was she?”
He opened his mouth. He got as far as “Mommy, it was—”
And then his face came apart and he was crying so hard he couldn’t make words, eight years old, sobbing into my shoulder, and I held onto the back of his head and stared at the wall over his bed and did not move for four minutes.
When he could talk again he said one more thing, and it was the thing that made me get out of that bed and stay out of it.
“Mom, she’s not gone. I saw what Daddy did.”
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