“She’s going to have limits for a while,” he added. “Having limits isn’t the same as having no life.”
That night,
Alice fell asleep with a notebook beside her.
I was repacking the hospital bag when it slid onto the floor.
Across the top, she’d written:
“THINGS I WANT TO DO WHEN MOM STOPS BEING SCARED”
Then the last one:
I sat on the floor.
For almost a year, I’d watched everything about Alice. I’d never realized she was watching me too.
The next morning, guilt made me move too fast.
“You can go back to school.”
I sat on the floor.
“No. We’ll plan it. And it will be soon, okay, honey?”
“You read my notebook.”
“It fell open, Alice.”
“But you read it.”
“I saw the page.”
“You read my notebook.”
She pushed her bowl away.
“You always fix stuff I didn’t ask you to fix.”