Then she turned toward Noah’s bassinet.
At first, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.
Margaret crossed the room.
She lowered the side panel.
She reached beneath Noah’s blanket.
“Don’t touch him.”
“He needs to meet his mother.”
“I am his mother.”
“Biology is not motherhood.”
She lifted him.
Noah woke at once.
His face crumpled. His cry came sharp and frightened, filling the room with a sound so primitive that my entire body reacted. Milk tightened painfully in my breasts. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.
Margaret held him too loosely, one hand beneath his back, his unsupported head tilting near her elbow.
