She asked whether it helped.
Physical therapy began with movements so small they felt insulting.
Lift one foot.
Press the heel down.
Shift weight without twisting.
Stand for five seconds.
I wanted the therapist to understand that I had once carried groceries, folded laundry, and climbed stairs without thinking.
Instead, I gripped the walker and counted.
Five seconds became ten.
Ten became twenty.
Weeks later, I crossed the apartment from the guest room to the kitchen while Emily walked beside me with both hands ready but not touching.
Halfway there, I stopped.
“I cannot do this,” I said.
Emily looked at the chair behind me and the counter ahead.
“You can sit,” she said. “Or you can take one more step. Both choices are yours.”
The sentence was so ordinary that it nearly broke me.
Both choices are yours.
Daniel had made every choice sound like a test of loyalty.
