The wheelchair’s small front wheels shuddered over the seam in the sidewalk, and the sound, that high, embarrassed squeak, felt louder than it should have in the still afternoon. Every push of my hands against the rims was a negotiation between muscle and pride. My palms burned a little through the thin gloves, and the concrete radiated Florida heat up into my legs, into the hip that still throbbed like a warning light.
I told myself to keep going anyway.
I told myself Michael would see me and remember.
Remember me standing at the stove on school mornings, the smell of toast and coffee filling the kitchen. Remember me sitting at the edge of his bed when he had nightmares, rubbing circles into his back until his breathing slowed. Remember me and Robert at his graduation, clapping until our hands stung, crying because we were proud and pretending we weren’t.
I had packed a pathetic suitcase. That was the humiliating truth of it. A small roller bag that looked like something you’d bring for a weekend trip, except there was no trip. There was only need. A couple of outfits folded with too much care, toiletries in a plastic bag, the thick folder of medical paperwork I kept close like armor. It rested on my lap as I rolled up his driveway, and I could feel its corners pressing into my thighs.
Their house rose in front of me like a billboard announcing success.
Three-car garage. Manicured lawn striped by a landscaper’s handiwork. A front door so glossy it reflected sunlight like a mirror. The kind of place that screamed, We’re doing great, and whispered, Don’t bring mess inside.
My chair felt like a grocery cart at a Mercedes dealership.
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