Only a woman alone, pregnant, frightened, and too weak to dress properly.
I tied her shoes because she could not bend, and she watched my hands with silent exhaustion.
Her silence was not empty.
It was filled with every minute she had waited.
Every unanswered call.
Every wrong thought I had let grow inside me.
In the elevator, she leaned against the wall and held the folder against her chest.
The fluorescent light made her face look almost gray.
I stood beside her, not touching her this time, because I did not know whether my touch still comforted her.
The numbers above the door descended slowly.
Fourth floor.
Third.
Second.
Each pause felt like a small punishment.
At the entrance, the night air struck us cold, and Lucie inhaled through clenched teeth.
I guided her toward the car, opened the passenger door, and placed my hand over the roof.
She stopped before getting in.
For one terrifying second, I thought she was going to collapse.
Instead, she looked at me and asked, “Were you afraid for me first, or angry first?”
The question was quiet enough to be almost kind.
That made it worse.
