When he moved to the rehab unit, there was a chair beside his bed that became hers. I’ve sat on more comfortable furniture at airports. She slept in it anyway.
One morning I arrived at seven and found her curled up under Daniel’s spare blanket, knees tucked to her chest.
“Emma,” I whispered. “Go home.”
She opened one eye. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sleeping sitting up.”
“I’m young.”
“You’re twenty-two, honey, not superhuman.”
She smiled. But she didn’t leave.
Then she started missing dance classes, and that worried me. Dance wasn’t a hobby for Emma. It was her whole plan. She’d been training since she was four. She wanted to teach professionally and one day open a little studio of her own. This was her final year. Attendance mattered. Rehearsals mattered.
One afternoon, while she sat peeling an orange for Daniel, I said, “You can’t keep skipping.”
