She gripped the blanket with both hands.
“Grandma came here last night.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What do you mean?”
“The door made a little sound, and I woke up.”
Brooklyn glanced toward the NICU door, then back at the incubator.
“I pretended I was asleep because I didn’t want her to make me leave.”
My mouth went dry.
The ventilator hissed beside us.
The monitor beeped.
Every sound that had reassured me a moment earlier now felt like a countdown.
“Are you sure it was Grandma?”
Brooklyn nodded.
“She has the silver hair and the long coat.”
I looked toward the door.
Gloria had said the front desk would be updated.
My mother had not been authorized.
Yet Brooklyn was not describing a dream.
She was describing a choice she had made while frightened: stay still, stay quiet, do not let Grandma notice.
“What did she do, Brooklyn?”
