New ones.
Same smell somehow.
Lily said:
“Remember when everyone stared at my wig?”
“Yes.”
“I hated that.”
“I know now.”
“Remember when you thought raising money would fix everything?”
“Yes.”
“Idiot.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
Then:
“I was lucky.”
He looked at her.
“Because you got better?”
“That too.”
Then:
“Because you stayed.”
He went quiet.
Not saved.
Stayed.
Years
later, when I was old enough that my memory began dropping small things, I still remembered Ethan at fourteen.
Long hair.
Serious eyes.
Determined to fix something adults could not fix.
I remembered being proud.
Then frightened.
Then proud differently.
The first pride had been easy.
My son sacrificed his hair.
What a beautiful boy.
The second was harder.
Watching him learn that love does not make him responsible for another person’s survival.
Watching him accept limits without becoming less caring.
Watching him ask instead of assume.
Watching him remain
