My mother took one look at the bandage on my neck and started crying. My father sat beside my bed and held my hand so carefully it undid me in a way violence never had.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
He squeezed my hand. “For what?”
“For not listening.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “You don’t owe us remorse for being deceived by cruel people.”
My mother wiped her face and said, with textbook practicality through tears, “Next time we dislike a man, you are required to trust us immediately.”
I laughed so hard I cried.
Healing is not cinematic.
It is boring, humiliating, repetitive.
It is learning to pivot from bed to chair without crying.
It is physical therapy and scar cream and waking from nightmares with your heart trying to claw through your ribs.
It is flinching when a nurse enters too quietly.
It is hearing the hiss of a radiator and remembering the kitchen floor.
It is wanting revenge on Monday and oblivion on Tuesday and peace on Wednesday and none of those things by Thursday because you are too tired to want anything except sleep.
I got stronger anyway.
Crutches came before confidence.
Confidence came before steadiness.
Steadiness came before grace.