A severe infection had changed everything.
She picked up her coffee.
I remembered crying in the audiologist’s office because voices suddenly sounded far away.
My father, Nathaniel, knelt in front of me.
He waited until I looked at him.
“Your life isn’t getting smaller, kiddo. We just do things differently now.”
“But what if I can’t hear people?”
“We just do things differently now.”
“Then we’ll find ways to communicate, honey.”
He worked extra shifts to help pay for my hearing aids.
When I complained about needing them, he’d say, “Needing help doesn’t make you helpless.”
Then he died when I was fourteen.
And Vanessa changed.
“Needing help doesn’t make you helpless.”
At first, she asked me to help around the house.
Soon, I was making dinner, doing laundry, and handling most of the chores.
“I just need help, Zoe. I miss him too.”
