Flowers.
Dress.
Photographer.
Hotel.
Money.
Families.
All of it.
Gone in a sentence.
“This is ridiculous.”
she said.
“You'll calm down.”
Daniel’s face changed.
Maybe those words reminded him of every apology she expected others to make after she hurt them.
Maybe he had heard them before.
“I hope I do.”
he replied.
“But I still won't marry you.”
Paramedics arrived.
After that, everything became fragments.
Blanket.
Stretcher.
Oxygen.
Questions.
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Did you strike your head?”
“I don't think so.”
“Pain from one to ten?”
“Nine when I move.”
“Recent surgery?”
“Yes.”
“How recent?”
“Twelve weeks.”
“Can you feel your fingers?”
“Yes.”
My mother rode with me.
Daniel followed in his car.
Vanessa did not.
At the hospital, imaging showed no complete rerupture.
That was the good news.
The bad news was severe strain, swelling, probable partial damage, and inflammation around the repaired tissue.
My surgeon would need to evaluate.
I cried when the doctor said physical therapy might be set back by weeks.
Not because of pain.
Because I remembered every hour it had taken to regain six inches of movement.
Every exercise.
Every night sleeping upright.
Every time I celebrated touching a kitchen shelf.
All of it suddenly uncertain again.
Mom sat beside me.
“I should have stopped her years ago.”
I looked over.
“What?”
She stared at her hands.
“Vanessa.”
“This isn't your fault.”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
“I taught you to accommodate her.”
That was true.
I did not say it.
Mom continued:
“When she was little, she had tantrums.”
“We learned if we gave her space, they passed.”
“Then she got older.”
“We called it personality.”
“Strong-willed.”
“Emotional.”
“Sensitive.”