He wasn't helping. It was unfair of her, to expect him to magically know all the right things to say when she didn't even know what she needed to hear, but instead of feeling reassured, she felt patronized. Lindsey was too rational, too methodical. She wouldn't go so far as to call his reaction emotionless, but he was too calm, cool, and collected for her current tastes. And she couldn't bring herself to believe everything he said.
"You weren't there," she informed him, staring intently down at his hand on her knee. "You didn't have to find your spouse dead in the morning, or have to explain to a little girl that her parent was never coming home. 'Hell' doesn't even begin to cover it, Lindsey."
She tensed, biting the inside of her cheek. "How am I supposed to brush that off?" It reminded her all too vividly of what she had felt with Izzy's disappearance, and it angered her even more. The words spilled out, voice rising. "I can't just 'live my life' now, do you understand that? I've seen too much. You aren't supposed to know what might or might not happen to you in the future, it ruins everything. You don't even want a baby, I remember that, but we might have a daughter, we might not have a daughter. We might be happy together, or you might die a horrible death when she's four. We might die in some horrible Apocalypse next month."
Grabbing the tissues from the nightstand, she tore out a handful on reflex, barely consciously aware of the tears pouring down her face. "It was better when I didn't know. I want to go back to that."