“You frightened me first.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I smiled.
Then she asked, “How are things at home?”
“Complicated.”
“Sometimes complicated is progress.”
I thought about that.
“Daniel started therapy.”
“Good.”
“He told his therapist everything.”
“Better.”
“I still don’t know whether we’re going to stay married.”
There was a pause.
“You don’t have to know yet.”
Recovery forced me to move slowly.
Nora stayed with us for the first week.
Daniel cooked.
Badly.
He followed written post-operative instructions with the solemnity of a man defusing explosives.
But he never checked my incision unless I asked.
Never lifted my shirt.
Never asked for measurements.
One afternoon, I woke from a nap and found a glass of water beside my bed.
Under it was a note.
Didn’t want to wake you. Call if you need me.
That was all.
No list of symptoms.
No reminder about medication.
No question about pain.
Just availability.
