She was on the floor, half leaning against the cabinet, one hand wrapped tightly in a dish towel already soaked through with dark, spreading stains. Her face was pale, her breathing uneven, her eyes barely focused as she tried to push herself upright and failed.
“I’m—fine,” she managed, though nothing about her said she was.
“You’re not fine,” I said, already moving toward her, my earlier anger evaporating so fast it left something hollow behind.
“It’s just—” she swallowed, wincing. “Oil. I dropped the pan. I didn’t want to wake him but he—he started crying and I couldn’t—”
Her voice broke, the sentence collapsing under its own weight.
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