“Do you hate me?”
A week later, I found myself facing Marla in a mediation room, her hands clasped tightly, eyes red.
She spoke first, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I never meant to hurt anymore.”
I sat forward, anger and pain mixing. “Then why?”
Marla’s confession came out in pieces. “There was chaos in the nursery that night. Your daughter was put under the wrong chart, and when I realized it, I panicked.”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “I made one lie to cover another, and by morning I had trapped all of us inside it.”
“I never meant to hurt anymore.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I told myself I would fix it. Then I told myself it was too late. I’ve lived with it every day for six years.”
“Marla, what you did was unforgivable.”
“I deserve what’s coming!” she said, her voice breaking. She looked relieved almost. “Even if it means doing… time. Whatever it is. I’m sorry. But maybe now I can finally breathe.”
