"She's your daughter when I say she is," Tara says with a smile, turning to catch his lips for a short kiss. "And clearly your memory's faulty, I'm as innocent as the driven snow," she says with a barely contained laugh, snapping the food processor cup off of the machine and moving to sit in a chair that's in front of Keira's highchair once she'd put her daughter into it.
"What?" She's not looking at him yet because she's helping Keira not spit bright orange down her face with a bright yellow plastic spoon. After a few seconds, his question sinks in, and she pushes herself to her feet, spooning sweet potato onto the tray of the highchair so that Keira can play and try to feed herself while she comes to take a look. "It must be some sort of mistake, I had one of the nurses pull all my files together." Keeping half an eye on their daughter, Tara moves into the living room, and she takes the file, flipping through it.
It's not all that surprising that he didn't recognize who it was for - it'd been open to the state forms that are standardized medical examiner fare, not the pictures, or, really, the rest of the police report.
The amount that Tara had changed over the last year was clear when she just took half a bread, and folded the folder closed, sticking it under her arm. First, she ran her fingers along her eyebrow, and she took a deep breath before finally, quietly-- "So, we can talk about it tonight after Molly gets here and we go out, or we can talk about it tomorrow when she's here, and we'll go out. I'll take the day off, call in sick. It's your birthday, baby, so it's up to you."
The two things that haven't changed - she's not the color of a sheet, she's not crying, she's not unable to speak - it's just two things, and they're both small.
Her hand's shaking. Just a little, but it's the hand that used to wear a brace, when she first came here. It's that, and her eyes keep settling on him, then darting away, like somewhere deep down, right this second... she can't look at him for long.
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"What?" She's not looking at him yet because she's helping Keira not spit bright orange down her face with a bright yellow plastic spoon. After a few seconds, his question sinks in, and she pushes herself to her feet, spooning sweet potato onto the tray of the highchair so that Keira can play and try to feed herself while she comes to take a look. "It must be some sort of mistake, I had one of the nurses pull all my files together." Keeping half an eye on their daughter, Tara moves into the living room, and she takes the file, flipping through it.
It's not all that surprising that he didn't recognize who it was for - it'd been open to the state forms that are standardized medical examiner fare, not the pictures, or, really, the rest of the police report.
The amount that Tara had changed over the last year was clear when she just took half a bread, and folded the folder closed, sticking it under her arm. First, she ran her fingers along her eyebrow, and she took a deep breath before finally, quietly-- "So, we can talk about it tonight after Molly gets here and we go out, or we can talk about it tomorrow when she's here, and we'll go out. I'll take the day off, call in sick. It's your birthday, baby, so it's up to you."
The two things that haven't changed - she's not the color of a sheet, she's not crying, she's not unable to speak - it's just two things, and they're both small.
Her hand's shaking. Just a little, but it's the hand that used to wear a brace, when she first came here. It's that, and her eyes keep settling on him, then darting away, like somewhere deep down, right this second... she can't look at him for long.