Emily drove me home two days later.
My mother did not pick me up.
Tessa did not apologize.
When I reached my apartment, there was a small stack of mail in the box and a grocery bag sitting by the door.
Mrs. Alvarez had taped a note to it.
Soup is in the container. Do not lift anything. Text me when you’re inside.
I stood in the hallway with my brace, my sling, and my hospital discharge papers tucked under Emily’s arm, and something inside me finally gave way.
Not grief exactly.
Not relief either.
Recognition.
All my life, I had mistaken endurance for love because it was what my family demanded from me.
But love did not unplug the thing keeping watch over you.
Love did not laugh beside your bed.
Love did not call danger an overreaction.
Love left soup by the door and waited for a text.
