His expression tightened.
“Sometimes she wakes up and checks whether I'm breathing.”
I felt cold.
He looked toward the yard.
“She comes into my room and puts her hand near my chest.”
His voice broke.
“Then she wakes me up.”
I lowered my eyes.
He continued.
“The doctors told us to give her clear explanations and keep things predictable. We're arranging support to help her process what happened.”
I nodded.
“That's good.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I hate that she had to see it.”
I looked toward the open front door.
Then answered honestly.
“Me too.”
Daniel remained quiet.
After a while, he said, “I'm afraid all the time now.”
I turned toward him.
He stared at his hands.
“Every little sensation makes me wonder whether something's wrong again.”
He took a shaky breath.
“I used to get in the truck and go to work without thinking about my heart.”
I nodded.
He continued.
“Now I think about it when I wake up, when I eat, when I walk across the room.”
His eyes filled.
“And I'm terrified of leaving her.”
I understood.
Not because I'd experienced cardiac arrest.
But because I'd lived with the fear of losing someone I loved.
When Grace became ill, I spent years thinking about death.
Every appointment.
Every test.
Every change in her breathing.
I watched her too closely.
Sometimes I forgot to speak to her about ordinary things because I was so afraid of what might happen next.
I looked toward Daniel.
“Have you told your medical team how much this is frightening you?”
He nodded.
“We're talking about it.”
“Good.”
He sighed.
“I know recovery takes time.”
I looked toward the street.
“Knowing something and feeling it aren't always the same.”
Daniel gave a faint smile.
“That's true.”
We remained quiet.
Then I said, “Can I tell you what helped me after Grace died?”
He turned.
I explained how I'd eventually begun accepting small invitations again.
A meal with a friend.
A short visit.
A ride that didn't require me to disappear for days.
How I discovered that healing often happened through ordinary routines rather than one dramatic moment.
Then I told him about calling Claire.
Not every painful detail.
Enough.
Daniel listened carefully.
When I finished, he nodded.
“Sounds like you and your daughter are finding your way back.”
I looked toward the yard.
“I hope so.”
He studied me.
Then said, “You know, Ray, when Nora grabbed you, she didn't know anything about you.”
I nodded.
He continued.
“She didn't know your mistakes.”
I looked toward him.
“Your past.”
He paused.
“The people you'd disappointed.”
My chest tightened.
Daniel smiled gently.