I froze.
Don’t become his medicine.
It was the sentence I hadn’t known I needed.
“You’re allowed to love someone without curing what hurts inside them.”
The tape clicked softly.
Then Rebecca laughed.
“And if he’s still organizing canned food by expiration date, please mess it up occasionally on my behalf.”
The recording ended.
I sat alone for a long time.
When Daniel came home, I was rearranging the pantry.
He stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“The tomatoes belong—”
He stopped himself.
I looked over my shoulder.
Slowly, understanding crossed his face.
“You listened.”
“Yes.”
His eyes moved toward the cassette recorder.
“What did she say?”
I considered telling him.
Then I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
Pain flickered across his face.
But he nodded.
“Okay.”
Another small victory.
Several evenings later, Daniel asked whether I wanted to take a walk.
I did.
We made it only three blocks before I became tired.
