I needed to go back to the game of cat-and-mouse-sky-isn't-blue. Being the mouse, I was already at a disadvantage: being beaten black-and-blue (when I see someone bruised, even today, I can guage the timeline of their injury by the color of the bruising: it takes a decided sequence of color progression---greenish-yellow means you're almost home free), I was even more so. Unable to lift my arms even a little, unable to perform even the simplest of tasks (no cracked skull or socket, but the ribs: well, they weren't as lucky), in order to stay close to my son, to stay ready for the time we could literally escape, I had to return in the care of X.
And so it was X who would brush my hair; it was X who would feed me and the baby. It was X who dressed and undressed me; who laid me down, but not to sleep.
Why doesn't she leave?
Because sometimes she understands that she must maintain frozen: fixed in position, down in the trenches. It's a war of attrition.
And so they wait: holding patterns.
Children are worth the wait.
She knows this is the only thought that makes sense; and to have a thought that makes sense seems a secret luxury.
He knows this; he knows she is thinking this.
She knows she may only get one chance.
As does he.