I wanted my name back.
My money back.
My body back.
My judgment back.
Those things did not return all at once.
They returned like shy animals, one small step at a time.
Eli visited every few days.
At first, he brought practical things: groceries, a humidifier, a better thermometer, batteries, a snow shovel for Daniel’s building steps. Then one day he arrived with a children’s book.
“Anna loved this one,” he said awkwardly.
It was about a little rabbit who thought the moon was following her home.
I held the book carefully.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“It should be read. Not boxed.”
That night, I read it to Lily. She slept through the entire thing.
I cried through the last page.
Eli and I did not become what people might expect from a story like this.
Not quickly.
Not messily.
Not as a neat reward for decency.
