On the shelf by the window sat a single ceramic piggy bank I had bought years ago.

It was meant for the nursery that never came to be.

Mark had insisted we clear out all the baby things before he moved out.

He said looking at them made him feel like a failure.

What he really meant was that looking at them reminded him of my perceived failure.

I took a sip of the hot tea, letting the warmth spread through my chest.

I went to bed early, but sleep was slow to come.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the choking boy’s face, and then Mark’s cold, dismissive glare from our final court hearing.

***

Two days later, the air inside Harborview Children’s Hospital smelled of pine cleaner and industrial wax.

I stood in the corridor of the fourth-floor pediatric ward, checking a patient’s chart.

The monitors beeped in their familiar, comforting rhythm.

A nurse named Sarah jogged up to me, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

“The board wants to see you, Victoria,” she said, her eyes wide.