“You are not a porch.”
I laughed.
“And your leg?”
“Better than yesterday. Worse than I hoped.”
That was an answer she would not have given me a week earlier.
We talked for nearly two hours.
Not about the hospital.
Ordinary things.
She told me about the neighborhood where she grew up, the summer job she hated at a tourist gift shop, and the time her father tried to build a backyard deck without checking whether the ground was level.
I told her about the first house I restored after taking over my father’s company.
I had underestimated the damage, lost money, and spent three nights sleeping on the floor because I was too stubborn to admit the job overwhelmed me.
“You slept in the house?”
“There was no plumbing, but the roof mostly worked.”
“Mostly?”
“It rained in one corner.”
“And you think I make questionable decisions.”
“I never denied it.”
Then the conversation shifted.
“What was Sophie like when she was little?” Laurel asked.
“Loud.”
“She’s still loud.”
“She was louder.”
“And after her mother died?”
The question was careful.
I stared through the window.
“Quiet.”
Laurel waited.
“She stopped asking for things for a while. I think she thought needing anything would make my life harder.”
“How old?”
“Four.”
Laurel’s eyes changed.
“That’s too young to think that.”
“I know.”
“Did you?”
“What?”
“Let her need things?”
I smiled faintly.
“Eventually. I wasn’t very good at it either.”
“At needing things?”
“At letting anybody help us.”
We both knew the conversation was no longer only about Sophie.
When we finally stood, Laurel unfolded her walker.
I did not reach for her arm.
I opened the door and waited while she moved through at her own pace.
Outside, the sky was clear but cold.
The sidewalk stretched toward a small park two blocks away.
“There’s a bench near the entrance,” I said.
“You checked yesterday.”
“Of course.”
We walked slowly.
I adjusted my pace without mentioning it.
Laurel concentrated on every step but did not apologize for how long it took.
At the bench, she lowered herself carefully.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I told you I would.”
“People say things when someone is in a hospital bed.”
“You said that before.”
“I know.”
This time, she did not sound afraid.
She sounded embarrassed.
I sat beside her.
“Then let me say something outside the hospital.”
She turned.
“I want to see you again.”
Her eyes held mine.