He always planned to come back.
But one year became two.
Two became ten.
And every year he stayed away made returning harder.
“Mom called hospitals for you,” I said.
“I know.”
“She kept your room the same for six years.”
“I know.”
“She thought you were dead.”
He lowered his head.
“I know.”
My anger finally broke through.
“You don’t get to keep saying that.”
He started crying.
“I was ashamed.”
“You didn’t have to come back fixed,” I told him. “You just had to come back alive.”
Noah was angry too.
