“Was three hundred thousand a month not enough?”
My grandmother asked it from the doorway of my hospital room while I was holding my newborn daughter against my chest, wearing the same faded gray sweatshirt I had slept in for two nights because I had convinced myself that comfort was something we could no longer afford.
For a second, I thought I had misheard her.
I had been awake for nearly forty hours, drifting in and out of shallow sleep between nurse checks, feeding attempts, blood pressure cuffs, and the tiny startled sounds my daughter made whenever the hospital bassinet squeaked. The room smelled like antiseptic, warm plastic, and milk. Rain tapped softly against the window. A muted television on the wall showed a cooking segment no one was watching. The billing envelope lay folded face down on the side table beneath a magazine because I had looked at it three times already, and each time, my heart had started beating in my throat.
My daughter Layla slept on my chest, one fist tucked beneath her chin, her whole body no heavier than a promise.
My grandmother, Eleanor Whitmore, did not look at her first.
She looked at me.
She looked at the old sweatshirt, the frayed cuff around my wrist, the stretched leggings with washed-out knees, the overnight bag I had packed myself because Ethan said hospital extras were “where places like this really get you.” She looked at the generic lip balm by my water cup, the declined lactation upgrade form in the folder, the way I had shifted the bill beneath the magazine like money could be hidden by hiding paper.
Then she stepped into the room and asked again, slower.
“Was three hundred thousand a month not enough?”
