I was not waiting for him to become sorry enough.
I was not bargaining for a gentler version of the same home.
I was leaving the life in which his explanation always came after his cruelty and somehow erased it.
The first week at Emily’s apartment was humiliating in ways I had not expected.
I needed help sitting up.
I needed help washing my hair.
I cried the first time a spoon slipped from my hand because the pain medication made my fingers clumsy.
Emily never told me to be grateful.
She never said I was lucky.
She picked up the spoon, rinsed it, and brought me another one.
At night, I woke with the sensation that the floor was above me.
My ankles burned even when nothing touched them.
The ceiling fan made me nauseated, so Emily removed it and replaced it with a plain light fixture.
She did not ask whether that was reasonable.
