My daughter’s bottom lip trembled.
“She came inside and looked at you first.”
My hand moved toward the call button, but I stopped.
I needed to hear her without putting words in her mouth.
“Then what happened?”
“She went to Rosalie’s bed.”
Brooklyn’s eyes followed the clear tubing from the incubator to the machine.
“She looked at the machine…”
Then she stopped.
The ventilator gave another soft hiss.
The monitor kept beeping.
And my six-year-old daughter stared at the place where my mother had stood.
