But a locked door is a locked door, however noble the lock.
By refusing to let Emmett carry me, I didn’t protect him. I just handed the key to the one person willing to use my pride against both of us.
Thea couldn’t have stolen three years if I’d let my son close enough to see a cold radiator.
My refusal to be carried was its own kind of pride, and it cost us three years we’ll never get back.
So I stopped.
I let Emmett move me out of the cold apartment — not into some invented residence, but into a real one, warm, near him, where my grandchildren can walk over on a Sunday.
I let my son take care of his father, and I watched what it did to his face to finally be allowed to, and I understood at last that I’d been denying him something he needed as much as I did.
