The hospital smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee, and the fluorescent lights made everyone seem harsher than they really were—everyone except Diane Mercer, my husband’s mother. She needed no unflattering light to seem cold. She came in wearing a cream coat, expensive perfume, and the same expression she always wore when she came to judge me. My husband, Ryan, stood by the window, his hands buried in his pockets. My mother sat by my bed, gently rubbing my arm. My father, Daniel Brooks, remained near the door, quiet and observant.
I had been admitted the night before with severe abdominal pain and dehydration from complications from surgery. I was exhausted, frail, and barely able to sit up unaided. Ryan had told his mother not to come. She showed up anyway.
Diane didn't ask how I was. She didn't look at the chart taped to my bed. She looked right at me and said, "So this is what you're doing now? Lying in a hospital bed and making everyone run around after you?"
My mother tensed. “She just had surgery,” she replied cautiously.
Diane waved her hand dismissively. “I’m talking to my son’s wife, not you.”
I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Please go. I’m not doing this today.”
It only made her taller.
“Oh, now you have boundaries?” she snapped. “You didn’t have boundaries when you took Ryan away from his family, used up his money, and turned him into someone I barely recognized.”
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