Publicidad
Someone had probably tried to reassure him gently.
Instead, he'd heard something else.
"Nobody believes me."
"I would've believed you."
Noah looked straight at me.
"No, you wouldn't."
The certainty in his voice hurt.
"Why do you think that?"
"Because you and Grandma were talking."
"When?"
"Outside. You said maybe I shouldn't be here so much. Grandma said maybe I needed some space from Mom."
Publicidad
I remembered the conversation.
We hadn't been trying to take Emma away from him.
We were worried about him.
But Noah was seven.
He had heard adults discussing him outside his mother's hospital room, and he had filled in the blanks himself.
"I thought if I told you," he said, "you'd say I was making it up. Then you'd make me go home."
"Buddy, we were worried you weren't sleeping."
"I sleep."
"Not enough."
Publicidad
He didn't argue.
