Before I could respond, Beverly lifted Wren from my chest.
Just like that.
The place where my daughter had been suddenly felt cold.
“Oh, she’s definitely a Tran,” Beverly said, carrying her toward the window. “Look at that chin. Roland’s chin. His father’s too.”
Then she glanced at me.
“She hardly looks like you at all, dear. Isn’t that fortunate?”
Roland laughed.
I didn’t.
I lay in that hospital bed, exhausted and still recovering, watching my mother-in-law carry my six-minute-old daughter toward the window to show her the sunrise.
“Roland,” I said quietly. “Can I have her back?”
He looked at me.
Then at his mother.
“In a minute, Simone. Mom waited all night.”
Beverly stayed for six hours.
She held Wren for most of them.
She told the nurses how the baby should be wrapped.
She told me I was holding my own daughter incorrectly.
