I felt the sting, but it was duller than it once would have been. A year earlier, that sentence might have opened something in me. Now it only revealed him more clearly.
I turned to the nurse standing near the stroller.
“Could you take them into Consultation Room Three?” I asked.
She nodded. “Of course, Dr. Sinclair.”
Connor frowned. He hated hearing people defer to me. He had always preferred me uncertain.
“This is ridiculous,” he said.
“It’s private,” I replied. “You just asked for that.”
His jaw worked.
For a moment, I thought he would refuse, just to prove that he could. But Melinda stood, slowly, and placed both hands on the stroller handle.
“Connor,” she whispered. “Please.”
Something in her voice unsettled him.
Not guilt.
Fear.
He looked from her to Kenneth, then to me.
“Fine,” he said. “Five minutes.”
We walked down the hallway in a strange procession. Kenneth and I in front. Connor and Melinda behind us with the baby between them. The nurse followed to make sure the path remained clear and no glass had been tracked from the broken bottle.
Inside Consultation Room Three, the light was softer. There was a small round table, four chairs, a box of tissues, a wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser, and a mural of a sleepy moon holding a star. I had given difficult news in rooms like this. I had watched parents fall apart in rooms like this. I had learned that truth, no matter how gently offered, always changed the air.
Kenneth closed the door.
The click sounded final.
Connor remained standing. “Start talking.”
“Sit down,” Kenneth said.
“I’m not your client.”
“No,” Kenneth replied. “But your son is present.”
That quiet sentence did what anger would not have done.
Connor glanced at the baby and sat.
Melinda took the chair farthest from him.
