But the motorcycle was finished. His orthopedic surgeon was blunt: another serious injury to that leg could leave him with permanent mobility problems.
Daniel heard, You’ll probably walk.
What he felt was, You’ll never ride again.
I didn’t understand his attachment to that machine. But I understood grief. The bike had been his freedom, his weekends, the thing he talked about the way other young men talked about cars or careers. Losing it wasn’t small to him, even if it looked small to me. So when he went quiet, I gave him space. When he snapped at the nurses, I blamed the pain. When he refused physical therapy twice, I blamed fear.
And through all of it, Emma was there.
For illustrative purposes only
Every single day. Straight from class, dance bag over her shoulder, hair still pinned up in a bun. Some nights she stayed until visiting hours ended. Other nights, the nurses quietly let her stay later, because Daniel was calmer when she was in the room.
