She waited.
“Four hours.”
Laurel pointed toward the couch.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“That phrase should be illegal.”
I sat.
She brought the ice pack she normally used for her knee, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to me.
“You told me recovery happens one piece at a time.”
“I remember.”
“You told me not to prove everything in one day.”
“I remember that too.”
“Then why do your rules only apply to me?”
I had no answer.
Laurel sat beside me.
“I don’t need you to be the strong one every time.”
The sentence hit something deep.
“I need you to be honest when something hurts.”
I looked down at the sling I had stopped wearing two days too early.
“I’m afraid the company will learn it can function without me.”
Laurel’s expression softened.
“And did it?”
“Yes.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“It was deeply offensive.”
She smiled.
Then I said the part I had not admitted to anybody.
“I’m more afraid Sophie will learn she can function without me.”
Laurel’s smile disappeared.
“Graham.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous.”
“No. It sounds like a father who lost his wife and decided the only way his daughter would ever be safe again was if he became impossible to lose.”
I looked at her.
No one had ever said it that clearly.
“You got hit by a truck,” she continued. “And you’re treating recovery like failure because you think needing help means Sophie has less of a father.”
I swallowed.
“She already lost one parent.”
“And she still has you.”
“For now.”
Laurel understood what I meant.
She moved closer and rested her head carefully against my uninjured shoulder.
“You cannot promise her you’ll never get hurt.”
“I know.”
“You can promise she won’t have to face it alone.”
That was different.
For the first time, I understood we were not together because one of us needed saving.
We were together because neither of us had to pretend to be unbreakable.
By late April, my sling was gone.
Laurel traded the walker for a cane, though she still used railings and avoided crowded places where someone might bump into her leg.
Our Wednesday dinners continued.
Some weeks I brought food.
Other weeks, Laurel cooked while sitting on a tall stool beside the counter.
Sophie became responsible for napkins and considered herself management.
Laurel refused to call the stool progress because it had wheels and made her nervous.
I called it progress anyway.
One evening, Laurel made pasta while I tightened the loose handle on a kitchen drawer.
“You said you weren’t going to fix anything.”
“I said I wouldn’t reorganize your apartment.”
“You are holding a screwdriver.”
“The handle was one pull away from becoming a weapon.”
Sophie leaned over the counter.
“He does this at our house too.”
Laurel watched me test the handle.
“You look happier when something is broken.”
“I look useful.”