Page 146 of The Golden Hour

Honey slips her hand into her husband’s, and instantly, her nervous system settles. Her pounding heart slows to a steady beat, her twisting gut eases, and the cacophonous sound in the room fades to a hum.

Her husband’s hand—her Mason’s hand—is in hers. Supportive, protective, and adoring as he strokes the back of it with his thumb.

And Daisy is safe at home with her grandparents. Her grandmothers are probably baking Christmas cookies in the kitchen, while her grandfathers fight over who gets to hold her.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I almost died,” Honey says, her voice quiet but still slicing through the noise like a hot knife through butter.

Everyone in the room falls silent.

Mason squeezes her hand, his soft eyes on her.

“I almost died,” Honey repeats.

Agnes waves off Milton as he tries to cut in, then speaks to Honey in a firm tone.

“I think it’s time for Mrs. Carpenter to speak to her own experience at St. Mary’s,” Agnes says, her tone firm. “Go on, Mrs. Carpenter.”

Mason squeezes Honey’s hand as every single eye in the room turns toward her. Holding onto Mason for dear life, Honey thinks of Daisy. Of her sweet little girl smiling at her and her tiny hand wrapped around Honey’s finger, and the way her brown eyes look up at Honey like she is her whole world.

That gives her the fortitude she needs to keep speaking.

“I went through about thirty-six weeks of misery,” Honey says. “Throwing up ten to fifteen times a day.”

A few people in the room blanch, their faces going a little green as they imagine vomiting that many times. As they imagine how hard that is on the body. How she had to have two cavities filled two weeks ago because the enamel on her teeth had worn down.

“I couldn’t keep anything down,” Honey says. “Any little whiff of something could send me rushing to the nearest toilet. I stopped going out. To the grocery store. To the park. Anywhere. Because God forbid there was a food truck nearby, or someone eating something, or a smell I couldn’t handle.”

Honey takes a deep breath.

“I felt crazy,” she admits. “Like this was just something normal pregnant women dealt with, and I was weak because I couldn’t handle it. So I started asking myself why I couldn’t just deal with it? Why couldn’t I just be better at being pregnant?”

Honey swallows hard. Mason’s eyes are on her, and the weight of them is comforting her like a warm blanket. His hand is wrapped firmly around hers, anchoring her to the world.

And it’s his presence that gives her the strength to continue.

“I had my own doctor telling me I was suffering from one thing because he couldn’t bother to look any deeper. To actually do his job,” Honey says. “Dr. Mortimer diagnosed me with hyperemesis gravidarum and didn’t look any deeper than that to see that I was also preeclamptic.”

She meets the eyes of every single lawyer and feels her back straighten when some look away from her. Scared.

“How many other patients has he done that to?” Honey asks. “Staying on the surface because looking deeper took more effort? Because listening to women actually took more effort?”

She looks at Milton and tilts her head.

“Is it laziness or incompetence?”

Milton’s face goes red. “Mrs. Carpenter, while we sympathize⁠⁠—”’

“I’m still speaking, Mr. Woodham.”

The room goes stunned silent at Honey’s sharp, raised voice. Not a shout, not quite, but it’s the volume she used to get the toddlers to listen to her. But there’s a cold edge to it.

Mason’s eyes go a little wide, and a smile curves at his lips.

Lorraine just leans back in her chair, giving Honey a proud smile. In fact, even Honey’s surprise matches the others in the room. She didn’t sound like herself.

She sounded like her mother.