The morning after the wedding, my body finally relaxed enough to let exhaustion settle in. I woke up late, surprised by how much tension I’d been carrying without realizing it. Even a safe event had required hyper-awareness: scanning trays, watching hands, listening for the word shrimp like it was a siren.
Sam made coffee at my apartment, careful to use my clean mug and the creamer I’d approved. He didn’t do it like he was handling a fragile person. He did it like it was normal to respect someone’s needs.
“You were incredible yesterday,” he said, handing me the mug.
“I didn’t do much,” I said.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You showed up. That’s not nothing.”
I stared into the coffee and thought about the old Olivia—the one who used to skip family events because it was easier than being mocked. The one who hid in bathrooms. The one who doubted her own throat.
Showing up was something now.
That afternoon, Mom called me.
“I wanted to tell you something,” she said, voice quiet.
“What?” I asked, bracing without meaning to.
“I talked to that uncle,” she said. “The shrimp dip one.”
I exhaled. “How did that go?”