Tessa remained in the ICU for six days.
On the seventh morning, her fingers moved beneath mine.
It was small enough that I thought I had imagined it.
Then she moved them again.
Her eyes opened slowly.
There was pain in them, confusion, and something worse than either.
Fear.
I leaned close.
“It’s me,” I said.
Her lips barely moved.
“Did you come home?”
The question broke something in me that the hallway had not.
“I’m home,” I said. “I’m right here.”
She closed her eyes again, but this time her hand stayed around two of my fingers.
Recovery was not a montage.
It was slow, humiliating, exhausting work.
It was learning how to sit without dizziness.
It was swallowing water through pain.
It was physical therapy before breakfast and paperwork after lunch.
It was waking at 2:00 a.m. because a sound in the hallway made her body remember the house.
