Doubt moved in quietly. I tried to push it away, but it kept returning. My mother’s voice came back to me at odd moments, asking if I had really thought this through. I had not let her words land before. Now I could not stop hearing them.
The Afternoon Everything Came Open
My mother called one afternoon to say she had made too much baked ziti and offered to drop some by.
I left work early that day and arrived home before her. The apartment was completely silent. No music, no television, not even the sound of Rowan’s wheelchair moving across the floor.
Then I heard a thud from the bedroom.
Then a dragging sound. Another thud. And underneath it all, the sound of someone breathing hard and unevenly, the way people breathe when they are pushing through real physical pain.
I called his name. Silence.
I knocked. “Honey, are you alright?”
“I am fine,” he said from behind the locked door. “Do not come in.”
But his voice was clipped and breathless in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up. I started looking for the emergency key with shaking hands.
My mother walked in through the front door at that exact moment, heels clicking on the tile, casserole dish in hand, asking if everything was all right.
I did not answer her. I found the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
What Was Behind the Door
Rowan was on the floor near the bed, gripping the bedframe with both hands, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself upright.
His new prosthetic legs were strapped on. His right hand was scraped raw and bleeding slightly. Sweat ran down the side of his face. He looked up when the door opened, and the expression on his face was not anger.
It was shame.
“I told you not to come in,” he said, and his voice broke on the last word.
My mother stood in the doorway with her casserole dish, and she said nothing at all.
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