“I was thinking,” she continued, “this would be perfect for family gatherings.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not congratulations.
Not pride.
Not “I’m happy you finally did something for yourself.”
A use.
A purpose.
A way to turn my dream into a resource.
“Mom, I bought it as a place for me to rest.”
“Oh, honey,” she laughed softly. “You always say things like that at first. But once you see everyone enjoying it, you’ll feel differently.”
I looked out the clinic window.
Cars moved through the parking lot. People walked quickly, carrying coffee cups and briefcases. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere that belonged to them.
Everyone except me.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Those were the words I had used my entire life.
I’ll think about it.
Maybe.
We’ll see.
I’ll try.
They were polite words. Safe words. Words that kept everyone comfortable.
