Morning rehab. Midday planning calls. Afternoon equipment demos and legal reviews. Evenings answering emails until her vision blurred, then forcing herself to stop because Dr. Santos had made it clear that exhaustion was not heroism.
At six weeks post-discharge, sensation sharpened along her left thigh. At seven weeks she stood for twelve seconds with forearm support and did not cry until she got back to the car. At eight weeks she took two assisted steps between bars while a therapy aide counted in a voice too bright with excitement and Dr. Santos simply said, “Again.”
Emma kept the wheelchair because she still needed it for distance, for bad days, for speed and stability. She also began working with forearm crutches. The first time she crossed her living room with them unassisted, she reached the kitchen island and laughed out loud at the absurdity of being so proud over twelve feet of hardwood floor.
Then she texted Sarah: I walked to my coffee maker. Civilization restored.
Sarah replied with six all-caps expletives and a champagne emoji.
Aunt Marie visited on a rainy Thursday carrying lemon bars and a degree of righteous anger that age had sharpened rather than softened. She was Linda’s older sister, silver-haired, narrow-eyed, and incapable of performing politeness when she considered it undeserved.
She took in the apartment, the therapy bands draped over a chair, the industry binders stacked across the dining table, and whistled low.
“Well,” she said. “Your mother is going to hate every square foot of this place.”
Emma laughed and hugged her awkwardly from the chair.
Marie sat, crossed her ankles, and got to the point. “Your mother told people you needed peace and specialized care. She’s been making it sound almost mutual. A family decision. Temporary.”
“Of course.”
“She also thought the neighbors would assume you were too depressed to be seen.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “How charitable.”
Marie fixed her with a sharp look. “I’m not here to soothe you, sweetheart. I’m here to tell you what you already know. They’re more worried about embarrassment than remorse.”
Emma knew it. Hearing it still hurt.
