I looked at Leo.
His color had begun to improve.
The oxygen was helping.
His chest still rose and fell too quickly, but he no longer looked like the fragile little person I’d carried into the kitchen that morning.
I had spent hours begging Blake to take me seriously.
I wasn’t going to spend another minute begging.
“Blake can come up alone,” I said.
“Calista cannot.”
When Blake entered the room, his face was flushed.
He didn’t look at Leo first.
He looked at me.
“What did you do to the card?”
That answered a question I hadn’t even asked.
Our son was hospitalized, and Blake’s first concern was still the vacation.
“I froze it.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“My name is on the account.”
“I already paid for part of the trip.”
“With my card.”
He lowered his voice.
“We can sort that out later.”
“No.
We can sort it out now.”
I held up the tablet.
His jaw tightened.
“Mom and I were talking about you being overwhelmed.”
“You told her to take my phone if I interfered with your trip.”
“I didn’t mean during an emergency.”
“But that’s exactly what happened.”
He glanced toward Leo.
For the first time since entering the room, he seemed to really see him.
The oxygen tubing.
The monitors.
The tiny hospital bracelet around his wrist.
Something shifted in Blake’s expression.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe fear.
Maybe the realization that he could no longer pretend the morning had been harmless.
He pulled a chair closer.
“I didn’t know he was actually sick.”
“Neither did I.”
Blake frowned.
I continued.
“I didn’t know what was wrong.
That’s why I wanted a doctor.”
He had no answer for that.
A knock sounded at the door.
A hospital social worker entered.
Earlier, one of the nurses had asked me privately how I’d reached emergency services and why my own phone hadn’t been available.
I had told her the truth.
Now the social worker asked Blake to step outside while she spoke with me.
He resisted at first.
Then security appeared in the hallway, and he left.
I told the social worker everything.
Not dramatically.
Not emotionally.
