My left ankle had swollen so badly that the strap of my sandal pressed painfully into the skin, and every step sent a hot sting climbing up my leg, yet I kept moving along the sidewalk because stopping would mean allowing my thoughts to catch up with me, and once that happened I knew tears would follow.
The late afternoon sun over San Diego hung low but harsh, and the warmth wrapped around the street like a heavy blanket while my son Wyatt rested against my hip, his eleven month old body warm and solid as he hummed softly with damp curls brushing my cheek as though the world around us were perfectly calm.
The grocery bag cut into my palm while the carton of milk bumped against my knee with each uneven step, and I silently told myself that I only had to reach the apartment before Wyatt grew tired and began to cry.
My ankle throbbed with a pulse that matched my heartbeat while the distance ahead felt longer than it should have been, yet I kept walking because turning back meant admitting that things had become harder than I wanted anyone to see.