Chapter 8 - THE CHOICE THEY STOLE FROM ME
“Before I asked to come back?”
I could barely hear my own voice.
Mrs. Carter nodded.
The dining room seemed to tilt.
I remembered standing in my little apartment three weeks earlier, looking at the bills scattered across my kitchen table.
I'd called the estate because I was frightened.
I thought my unpaid leave had ended.
I thought I had no other option.
Now Mrs. Carter was telling me someone had already decided what would happen.
“Why?” I asked.
She wiped her cheeks.
“Vanessa said the household needed every employee available for the engagement preparations.”
I turned toward Vanessa.
“You knew I hadn't chosen to return?”
Her eyes filled.
“I knew you needed money.”
“That's not the same thing.”
She lowered her gaze.
Luca looked at Mrs. Carter.
“When was the schedule changed?”
“Three days before Sarah called.”
My mouth went dry.
Three days.
For three days, my name had been placed back on the work schedule while I was still sitting beside Owen's hospital bed.
I'd been crying over the possibility of losing my apartment.
Someone else had been counting how many hours they could get from me.
Luca pushed back his chair.
“Mrs. Carter, why didn't you tell Sarah about the approved leave?”
She looked at him.
“Because Vanessa said she'd discussed it with you.”
“I hadn't.”
“I understand that now.”
Teresa shook her head.
“You should have checked.”
“I know.”
Then Mrs. Carter turned toward me.
“Sarah, I want you to understand something. I didn't know Vanessa had moved the money.”
I believed that part.
But I couldn't ignore everything else.
“You knew I needed the leave.”
She nodded.
“You knew my son was in the hospital.”
Another nod.
“And you still changed my schedule.”
Mrs. Carter began crying harder.
“Yes.”
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I said, “You were the person I trusted most in that house.”
Her shoulders fell.
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Please don't call me sweetheart right now.”
She covered her mouth.
The room went silent.
I'd never spoken to her that way before.
But I wasn't being cruel.
I was finally telling the truth about how badly she'd hurt me.
Mrs. Carter nodded.
“I'm sorry, Sarah.”
I looked away.
A few minutes later, Luca asked everyone except Teresa and me to step into the adjoining sitting area.
He offered to arrange transportation back to the hospital.
I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
He sat down.
“I want to understand why someone would go to that much trouble to stop me from taking leave.”
Luca looked exhausted.
“So do I.”
I glanced at the old silver watch resting beside Teresa.
“Did your father really work nights?”
Luca smiled faintly.
“For years.”
Teresa nodded.
“He'd come home smelling like motor oil and cold coffee. Sometimes Luca would be awake before his father had even gone to bed.”
She touched the watch.
“One morning, your father missed your school concert because he'd worked a double shift.”
Luca looked down.
“I remember.”
“You were eight.”
“I remember that too.”
Teresa's eyes glistened.
“He cried afterward. He thought he'd failed you.”
Luca shook his head.
“He never failed me.”
Teresa took his hand.
“That's why we started that fund. We wanted our employees to have choices we didn't always have.”
I thought about those words.
Choices.
Such a small word.
Such an enormous difference.
For weeks, I'd been telling myself I was a bad mother for leaving Owen.
Now I was beginning to see that I'd been pushed into a decision I might never have made if I'd known the truth.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “I don't want anyone choosing for me again.”
He met my eyes.
“Then they won't.”
I shook my head gently.
“I don't mean just telling people to leave me alone. I need to know what I'm entitled to. I need it in writing. And I need to be able to ask questions without being frightened.”
He nodded slowly.
“You're right.”
Teresa looked proud.
“That's what the program should have done from the beginning.”
Later that afternoon, I returned to the hospital.
Owen was sleeping.
Patricia had placed a fresh blanket around him.
I sat beside his bed and opened the photograph on my phone showing his yellow nursery.
His little crib stood beneath the window.
A soft gray elephant rested on the dresser.
Above the crib was a drawing made by my neighbor's seven-year-old daughter.
It showed a yellow house, a blue sky, and a baby smiling inside.
She'd written, Welcome Home, Owen.
I studied it for a long time.
Then Patricia came over.
“Sarah, there's something I want to discuss before tomorrow's feeding appointment.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is Owen all right?”
“He's stable. This isn't about an emergency.”
I relaxed slightly.
She sat beside me.
“The social worker wanted to clarify something from that unauthorized call.”
I looked up.
“What now?”
Patricia hesitated.
“The woman said you didn't have reliable help at home and wouldn't be able to care for Owen after discharge.”
I stared at her.
“She said what?”
“She suggested we should delay discussing home care until someone else could make arrangements for you.”
My heart pounded.
“But I have a home.”
“I know.”
“My mother is helping me.”
“We understand that.”
I held out the photograph.
“Look. I painted his room myself.”
Patricia studied the little yellow nursery.
Then she squeezed my shoulder.
“Sarah, nobody is taking that away from you. We didn't accept the caller's claims. We only need to confirm your plans with you.”
I started crying anyway.
Because Vanessa hadn't merely taken my milk.
She'd tried to make the people caring for my son doubt whether I was ready to bring him home.
And suddenly I understood why she'd worked so hard to keep me away.
If I never spoke to the hospital, I couldn't correct what she'd said.
I looked at Patricia.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Did she tell you who she thought should make those arrangements instead of me?”
Patricia checked the note from the call.
Then her expression changed.
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who?”
May you like
She looked directly at me.
“Your employer.”
