He sent texts that sounded gentle but felt like traps:
“He needs me.”
“You’re hurting him.”
“Don’t be cruel.”
I didn’t respond. I documented everything.
Adam continued to improve—slowly, stubbornly—like his body had finally been given permission to hope.
A week later, we were back home. Our apartment looked unchanged, but it felt like we had weathered something enormous. Adam sat at the table, stirring cake batter from a boxed mix because neither of us had the energy for anything elaborate.
He looked up at me. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
He gave me a small, genuine smile. “I don’t want to be famous.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Good. Because I don’t want to share you with strangers.”
Adam leaned into my arm. “Can we just be normal?”
I kissed the top of his head. “Yeah. We’re going to take up all the space we need.”
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