I did not understand the full meaning of my daughter’s words until I saw her trying to stand with the walker beside her.
“She takes my walker every time you leave.”
My daughter said it so quietly that, for a moment, the room seemed almost silent around us.
I looked at the woman beside the dresser. Her split lip was already swelling, one side of her face darkening where she had struck the wood. I knew what had just happened between us. I knew I had hit her after she reached toward my daughter again. But suddenly that fight was no longer the center of the room.
The walker was.
I had spent months thinking of it as one more thing my daughter needed because of her injured leg. I knew she depended on it. I knew the rigid brace made movement slow and awkward. I knew she could not simply get up and cross a room without support.
