My mother, seventy, moving into the spare room for eight months until her own hip gave out.
I started working remotely.
First one job — customer service for a company that sold water filters, nine dollars an hour, headset on, baby on my lap.
Then two.
I did everything I could to provide for my girls and pay for my therapy.
I sold everything I could just to have a chance of walking again someday.
The truck.
My father’s tools.
My wedding ring, which I told myself was a practical decision and which I still think about at red lights.
Three years of physical therapy, twice a week, in a clinic that smelled of rubber mats and other people’s hope, and in year three the money ran out on the same afternoon the doctor stopped saying “some patients.”
I remember driving home — Ray drove; Ray always drove — and Greta, six by then, asking from the back seat if I was sad, and me saying no, and Greta saying, “Okay, but your face is.”
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