I hear her sigh. “You can bring her home, you know? The doctor said she doesn’t need to be here.” “We will leave soon.” “She’ll be more comfortable in your bed.” “I doubt that.” “Clay,” she drawls, his name soaring with sad understanding through the air. "It wasn’t anything you did—" “That’s enough.” My throat tightens. Does he blame himself for my miscarriage? It didn’t even cross my mind that he may harbour guilt, and for what?
