“That's not same.”
“No.”
“There were good years.”
“Good days.”
“She helped me through divorce.”
“She sat with Mom after Dad died.”
“She can be generous.”
Daniel was quiet.
“Then how do I reconcile that with pool?”
“You don't have to.”
“What?”
“Maybe both are true.”
“She loved you.”
“She also did something dangerous when she felt humiliated.”
“One doesn't erase the other.”
“That feels worse.”
“I know.”
He sighed.
“Everyone wants me to say she fooled me.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“I saw parts.”
“I just thought love meant accepting them.”
“That sentence sounds dangerous too.”
“Yeah.”
Vanessa moved in with our mother after leaving condo.
That lasted nine days.
On day ten, Mom called me.
“She’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Hotel.”
“What happened?”
Mom sounded exhausted.
“She wants me to call Daniel.”
“Don't.”
“I said no.”
I waited.
“And?”
“She screamed at me for two hours.”
“Mom.”
“I said no again.”
Another new thing.
Our family was changing because catastrophe had removed excuses.
Not necessarily in good ways.
But honestly.
Three weeks after incident, I began physical therapy again.
My shoulder had not suffered complete structural failure.
There was partial damage.
Painful.
Setback.
Not catastrophe.
The first session I cried.
My therapist, Hannah, waited.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I was farther than this before.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“I could lift to here.”
I demonstrated with left arm.
“Now I can't get right past this.”
“Then today starts here.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“But recovery does not care what feels fair.”
I laughed through tears.
“That should be on wall.”