“You do not know what this feels like.”
“I do,” he said. “I know what it feels like when people decide your body makes your life inconvenient.”
He was right.
For years, I had defended Noah when strangers underestimated him.
Then the moment my own body changed, I began measuring my worth by how little help I needed.
He saw the hypocrisy before I did.
The day I walked across the rehabilitation room without assistance, Noah waited at the other end.
My therapist stood beside me.
“Slow steps,” she said. “Do not rush.”
The distance was only 20 feet.
It felt like 20 miles.
I placed one foot forward, then the other.
My left leg trembled.
Sweat ran down my back.
Halfway across, I nearly stopped.
Noah held up both hands, urging me on.
When I reached him, he was crying.
He tried to hide it by adjusting his glasses.
“You are terrible at pretending,” I said.
“So are you.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
The edges were soft with age.
Purple crayon covered the center.
I stared at it.
“No.”
He unfolded our kindergarten marriage pact.
“You kept that?”
“For 23 years.”
I laughed until tears ran down my face.
At the bottom of the paper, our childish signatures still sat beside two badly drawn rings.
Noah looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
