cried harder over that than I had over anything my mother sent.
Several months later, I returned to the hospital for a follow-up appointment.
Afterward, I walked upstairs to the unit where I had spent those eighteen days.
Marisol was working.
She recognized me before I reached the nurses’ station.
“Look at you,” she said, smiling.
This time, those words felt like love.
I had brought a small basket for the unit: coffee packets, hand lotion, wrapped snacks, and a stack of blank thank-you cards patients could use when writing was difficult.
Marisol hugged me carefully.
Then she asked how my family was doing.
I thought about the question.
Owen was waiting downstairs.
Jenna had texted that morning asking whether I wanted lunch later.
The people who had shown up when I was helpless were still there now that I could stand on my own.
“My family’s doing pretty well,” I said.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t talking about my parents.
