After our torture of a meal, I pick up the baby from the crib, dodging a swipe from April’s hellspawn of a cat. By contrast, May is pliant like a doll, only cooing in protest for a second before I place her against my chest, trading warmth for warmth.
When I go to put her back, my shoulder smarts with pain.
I head to the guest room. “Going to bed already?” April asks me.
See? She can’t get rid of you fast enough.
When I turn, April’s face is a mask of concern. For a second, I’m stunned. “What?”
“Let me check your stitches first,” she requests. “You haven’t let anyone else see, have you?”
Something thick settles in my throat. Something dangerously close to a lump. “I’m fine.”
“Please,” she insists. “Just one look. I promise I’ll be quick.”
“So you can slip me a sedative and run?”
“
