They felt like something happening to someone else.
I stood in the hallway, useless, still holding my phone.
It buzzed again.
This time, I answered.
“What did you do?” I said, before she could speak.
There was a pause on the other end.
Then my mother’s voice, controlled, composed, like she was discussing dinner plans.
“Michael, you need to calm down.”
“No,” I snapped. “You were here. She said you told her not to call 911.”
“She was overreacting,” Diane replied. “Pregnancy is messy. Emotional. I was trying to keep her from embarrassing herself—and you.”
I laughed once. It sounded wrong.
“She’s in surgery.”
Silence.
Just for a second.
Then: “That’s unfortunate.”
Unfortunate.
My grip tightened on the phone.
“What did you take from her purse?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
