“We haven’t seen each other since the cabin.”
“Exactly.”
“Then nobody has had to say anything around me.”
“Don’t be literal.”
I leaned back on Allison’s sofa.
“What do you want, Linda?”
“I want my family back.”
I almost laughed.
“You have your family.”
“It’s not the same.”
“What isn’t?”
“You aren’t involved.”
The words surprised me.
Not because they were affectionate.
Because she sounded inconvenienced.
“I haven’t stopped anyone from doing anything.”
“You didn’t organize Thanksgiving.”
“No.”
“You always do the seating.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t even send the menu.”
“I wasn’t hosting.”
“No, but you usually coordinate.”
“Yes.”
She was silent.
Then I asked, “Did Thanksgiving happen?”
“What?”
“Did everyone eat?”
“Of course.”
“Then it sounds like things worked out.”
“You know that’s not my point.”
“I think I do.”
Her voice became sharper.
“You are enjoying this.”
That accusation stunned me.
“Enjoying what?”
“Watching everyone scramble.”
I looked around my sister’s living room.
My shoulder had faded from purple to yellow.
There was still tenderness when I lifted my arm.
“Linda, do you know what I was doing while everyone scrambled?”
She said nothing.
“I was at urgent care.”
Silence.
“I was sleeping in a hotel because I didn’t want to be near my husband.”
Still nothing.
“I was taking photographs of my bruises because I knew somebody would eventually tell me what happened wasn’t as bad as I remembered.”
Her breathing became audible.
“So no. I wasn’t enjoying anything.”
“I didn’t know you went to urgent care.”
“You never asked.”
That landed.
Finally she said, “I suppose I should have.”
I waited.
The words that came next were the closest thing Linda had ever given me to an apology.
“I handled that badly.”
Badly.
Not cruelly.
Not shamefully.
Badly.
But for Linda, it was something.
“Yes,” I said.
She inhaled sharply.
I could almost hear her regret admitting anything.
Then she said, “I do care about you, Claire.”
“I think you care about the version of me who makes things easy.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re part of this family.”
“Then why did none of you come help me out of the pool?”
She went silent.
I had not planned to ask that.
But once I did, the question seemed enormous.
Not why did Ethan push me.
Why did nobody else move?
Twenty-three people.
Some laughing.
Some watching.
Some uncomfortable.
One filming.
Nobody moved.
Finally Linda said, very quietly, “I don’t know.”
Neither did I.
We ended the call soon afterward.
I expected to feel triumphant.
Instead I felt tired.
That night, Dr. Morales asked Ethan and me a question that changed the direction of counseling.
“If Claire came home tomorrow,” she said, “what would be different?”
Ethan answered first.
“I’d help more.”
“With what?”
“Everything.”
“Be specific.”
He listed household tasks.
Laundry.
Groceries.
Appointments.
Family events.
Cooking.
Then Dr. Morales looked at me.
“Would that be enough?”
I stared at my hands.
“No.”
Ethan went still.
“What would be enough?” she asked.
I thought about it.
Then finally understood.
“I don’t want him to help me with our life.”
Dr. Morales nodded slowly.
“What do you want?”
“I want him to own part of it.”
Ethan frowned.
“What’s the difference?”
“Helping means it’s still my responsibility.”
He stared.
“If you help with Thanksgiving, I’m still the person responsible for Thanksgiving.”
I looked at him..
“I don’t want an assistant.”
The room became quiet.
“I want a partner.”
Ethan looked away.
And for the first time, I wondered whether love alone was going to be enough to turn him into one .
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