The therapist stayed close. I sat where Maya could see me.
Her recovery was still unfolding. There were supports, appointments, adaptations, and goals that changed as her team learned what she needed.
That morning, she was focused on moving one foot.
She shifted her weight, concentrated, and took a careful step.
Then another.
I covered my mouth.
“Don’t cry yet,” she told me. “I’m trying to count.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Sorry. Keep going.”
When she finished, she leaned against the support and looked at me with exhausted pride.
“Were you watching?”
“The whole time.”
That evening, after dinner, Maya sat on the couch sorting markers while I reviewed a short work report beside her.
My laptop chimed.
It was a calendar reminder for a payment that no longer existed.
For a moment, I saw myself on the hospital floor again: frightened, shaking, checking how long it would take to obey my mother.
