I recalled her frequent refusal of video calls, usually blaming her messy room.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’d say they’re stupid and I shouldn’t listen.”
She was probably right. That was exactly how I might have responded.
“It wasn’t that simple, Mom. I had to see them every day.”
I took her hand.
“Who helped you through it?”
“Ryan.”
Ryan had been her boyfriend for nearly a year. We’d met twice, and he’d seemed courteous.
“He was the only person who understood,” Emily continued. “He helped me find the surgeon.”
“Ryan helped you choose the surgery?”
“He supported my decision.”
“Did he ever tell you that you didn’t need it?”
She paused.
“He wanted me to be happy.”
Her answer troubled me, but she was exhausted, so I stopped questioning her.
The next morning, her doctor discharged her with recovery instructions.
I reserved a nearby hotel room to care for her.
