“Where is David?” I rasped, my throat dry.

“He’s parking the car, Elena. You know how he worries.” Martha didn’t look at me. Her eyes were darting around the hallway, scanning the nurses’ station. She looked like a woman expecting a delivery, or perhaps an execution. “But look who I brought to cheer you up. Little Leo missed his step-mommy so much.”

She stepped aside, revealing the five-year-old boy standing in the doorway. Leo, David’s son from his first marriage, looked smaller than usual. He was wearing his Sunday best—a pressed collared shirt that looked uncomfortable—and he was clutching a plastic sippy cup with a death grip.