I was not pretending I knew how the rest of my recovery would look.
I was deciding where my body would be next.
That was enough.
The nurse moved carefully with me.
One step.
She adjusted herself to my pace instead of forcing me to match hers.
The front door was only a short distance away.
It felt farther than it had any right to feel.
My husband watched us approach.
His expression stayed controlled, but his body gave him away.
He widened his stance near the doorway.
The nurse did not release me.
I did not release her.
He had already tried the calm explanation.
He had already blamed the cancer.
He had already suggested pain made me unreliable.
He had already reminded the nurse that I was his wife.
None of it had changed my answer.
So when we reached the doorway, he made the argument physical without striking either of us.
His hand came up.
He spread it across the frame.
The same doorway I had looked at from the chair was now directly in front of me.
The nurse’s forgotten bag hung between us.
My hand remained locked around her arm.
And for the first time that evening, I was no longer trying to figure out what would make the next hour easiest for my husband.
I was watching the door.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
