“You have a broken arm, cracked ribs, stitches, and a newborn,” Evelyn said gently. “That is enough to have.”
My first instinct was to refuse. Not because I wanted to be alone, but because accepting help felt like signing a confession. My parents had trained me to believe assistance always came with a hidden invoice. Favors were stored like weapons. Shelter had strings. Money had memory.
Richard seemed to understand without me saying any of it.
“No conditions,” he said. “No speeches. No keeping score.”
I swallowed.
“Why?” I asked.
The question came out smaller than I intended.
His face softened.
“Because when you were seven years old, you used to wait on the porch with your backpack when your mother forgot pickup. You would pretend you liked watching the streetlights come on.”
I remembered that porch. I remembered the cold concrete step beneath my legs and the way I told myself Mom would be there any minute. I remembered Richard’s old truck pulling up one evening when the sky had turned purple.
