Paul’s family eventually divided into two groups.
Those who admitted they had known something was wrong.
And those who continued insisting that I should have kept everything private.
I stopped responding to both.
Because I finally understood that I didn’t need everyone’s approval to move forward.
Six months after the attack, I returned to work.
My leg still ached sometimes, especially when the weather changed, but I could walk without crutches.
My colleagues welcomed me with flowers and a small celebration.
Nobody asked me to pretend everything was normal.
Nobody told me to forgive anyone.
They simply made room for me to heal.
Mrs. Young visited that weekend.
She brought homemade soup and a small envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed the two of us standing outside her house on a sunny afternoon.
I was leaning on a cane.
She had one arm around my shoulders.
