Chapter 2 - Two Weeks Became Six
They discharged me after fourteen days. I came home to a quiet house and a list of instructions: rest, no lifting, expect the fatigue to last weeks.
Walking from my bedroom to the kitchen wiped me out. I'd sit at the table afterward, dizzy, waiting for the room to settle.
So when Diane said, "Let her stay with me a few more days, you can barely stand," I agreed. A few days sounded reasonable.
A few days turned into a week. The week turned into two.
I started asking, gently at first, when Ellie was coming home. Diane always had an answer ready.
"She's napping."
"We're walking out the door for the park right now."
"She's having such a good day, Rachel, let's not upset her routine."
"She's worn out tonight, and she's got a playdate tomorrow."
My four-year-old suddenly had a fuller calendar than I did.
I called Greg at work. "I want you to go get her. Today."
He exhaled through his nose, that slow sound he makes when he's decided a conversation is beneath him. "You're still recovering, Rachel."
"I'm well enough to have my own kid in my own house."
"Nobody's saying you're not."
"Then go get her."
"Mom's got everything handled."
"She's been gone almost a month, Greg. I miss her so much it hurts."
"You're talking like my mother kidnapped her."
"I didn't say that."
"You're implying it."
I dropped my voice and tried again. "I just miss my daughter."
"I know. I'm her dad, I miss her too."
"I don't think you do know. Not the way I do."
"If Mom's willing to help a little longer, why are you turning it into a fight?"
By week four I could drive again, short trips. I was planning my return to work, a few clients a day to start. I wanted my house to smell like Ellie again — the strawberry shampoo, the marker caps she never closed.
Diane kept stalling.
I called one afternoon. "Put Ellie on, please."
"She's busy."
"Doing what?"
"Coloring."
"Diane. Put my daughter on the phone."
"Don't start, Rachel. Let the child enjoy herself."
"I'm not asking for a favor. I'm her mother."
"I'm aware."
"Then stop acting like I need an appointment to hear her voice."
A long, theatrical sigh. "You're still emotional from the illness. You're not thinking straight."
I hung up on her.
That night I told Greg I was going to her house in the morning to bring Ellie home.
He looked up from his phone like I'd suggested something wild. "Why not give it one more week?"
I actually laughed. "Why do you want her there so badly?"
"I don't."
"You haven't asked one time when she's coming home. Not once in a month."
"Because she's safe there."
"Safe is the bare minimum, Greg."
May you like
"You're making this into something it's not."
That was the last time I asked him for anything. By week six, I was done asking anyone.
