I remained in the hospital for another night.
Graham slept in a chair in the hallway because I would not let him back into my room.
He later told me he had nowhere else to go.
I told him that was not my problem to solve while breathing hurt.
When I was discharged, my coworker arrived with a paper coffee cup, a clean sweatshirt, and a pillow for the seat belt.
Graham stood near the exit holding my overnight bag.
He handed it to her instead of trying to carry it to his car.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
It was not forgiveness.
It was only an acknowledgment that I had heard him.
For the next six weeks, my life became a schedule of medication, shallow walks, follow-up appointments, and sleeping upright because lying flat felt like being folded around broken glass.
My coworker left groceries outside the spare room and never made me explain why I cried when I heard footsteps behind me on the stairs.
