I never trusted him.
But distrust is not evidence.
When I reached the emergency floor, I found my grandchildren sitting in plastic chairs beside the nurses’ station. Lily was nine, barefoot beneath a hospital blanket. Noah was six, holding a stuffed dinosaur against his chest while staring silently at the floor.
“Grandma,” Lily whispered.
I dropped to my knees and wrapped both children in my arms.
“Where’s your father?”
Lily’s entire body went rigid.
Before she could speak, Brent appeared at the end of the hallway in a pressed gray shirt, looking irritated more than frightened.
“Margaret,” he said. “You didn’t need to come.”
“My daughter is in the hospital.”
“She fainted. The children overreacted.”
