“It would scare patients.”
We worked.
Half an inch.
Then another.
Life became smaller again.
Exercises.
Ice.
Sleep.
Work.
I was a senior editor at a nonprofit educational publisher and could work remotely.
That helped.
Daniel checked in weekly but never made conversations about Vanessa unless I asked.
Mom visited.
Vanessa remained blocked.
Six weeks later, a certified letter arrived.
From Vanessa.
Not her attorney.
I almost returned unopened.
Instead I read.
Emily,
I have written letters that blamed you, Daniel, Mom, alcohol, stress, the wedding, Dad dying, jealousy, childhood, and everything else I could find.
I destroyed them.
None changed the fact that I put both hands on you and pushed.
I knew about surgery.
I knew you could not swim normally.
I knew you had told me not to touch you.
I did it anyway.
I am ashamed.
I keep wanting to say I didn't mean for what happened afterward.
That is true, but I am beginning to understand that it is also a way of making intention more important than consequence.
I wanted to scare you.
I wanted to humiliate you.
I wanted you to look dramatic so everyone would finally see what I thought I saw.
Instead they saw me.
I hate that sentence.
Not because it is unfair.
Because it is accurate.
I am not asking you to tell Daniel anything.
I am not asking you to reduce charges.
I am not asking you to forgive me.
My lawyer advised me not to write this.
My therapist suggested I wait until I could write without requesting something.
This is first version where I can.
I am sorry.
Vanessa
I read it twice.
Then placed it in drawer.
I did not respond.
Not yet.
But I did not throw it away.
The court case ended with a plea.
Vanessa accepted responsibility for misdemeanor battery and reckless conduct.
Probation.
Community service.
Mandatory behavioral counseling.
Restitution for uninsured medical costs.
No contact with me unless I initiated.
Some people again thought that was too little.
Others thought it was too much because “sisters fight.”
I stopped reading comments.
My shoulder improved.
Slowly.
At five months after pool, I reached above my head for the first time.
Hannah clapped.
I cried.
At six months, I swam.
That mattered.
I had never been strong swimmer even before accident.
After pool, water terrified me.