“I was getting you out of that house.”
I felt my eyes burn.
He explained that he had already arranged several weeks of treatment and rehabilitation.
But there was more.
Daniel had rented a small accessible apartment only ten minutes away from the clinic.
No stairs.
Wide doors.
A bathroom I could safely use.
I shook my head.
“Daniel, I can’t afford all that.”
“You don’t have to.”
Then he smiled for the first time that morning.
“I sold my motorcycle.”
I just stared at him.
He had loved that motorcycle for fifteen years.
Before I could say anything, he added:
“And I’m not going back home tonight.”
“What?”
“I told Jessica this morning that I was taking you away. She thought that meant she had won.”
Daniel paused.
“She hasn’t heard the rest yet.”
That evening, after I was admitted for evaluation, Daniel returned home.
Later, he told me exactly what happened.
Jessica was smiling when he walked through the door.
“So?” she asked. “Where did you put him?”
Daniel placed a medical report on the kitchen table.
Then another document beside it.
