“This is enough for the bus. Hurry up, my mother is already waiting for us for lunch.”
I stood motionless outside the hospital entrance, my five-day-old son held firmly against my chest. The fresh pain from my C-section incision throbbed brutally, like a slow fire burning under my skin.
For one broken instant, I believed I must have heard him wrong.
Dominic Vance, my husband of two years, had just pushed a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill and several coins into my hand. He did not take the overloaded diaper bag. He did not ask whether I could walk. He did not even look at Leo, our newborn, bundled safely in a soft white blanket.
“Dominic… what do you mean, the bus?” I asked, my voice splitting beneath the thick afternoon heat. “I was just discharged. I can barely take a full step without agony.” Buspass deals
