He noticed I hated complete darkness and began leaving the bedroom curtains slightly open so a little moonlight could enter.
He learned that crowded rooms exhausted me.
That I liked toast almost burned.
That I preferred cheap diner pancakes to elaborate brunches.
One morning, I sat at the breakfast table staring at food I didn’t want.
Old habits were difficult to lose.
Even surrounded by comfort, part of me still felt guilty for taking anything I hadn’t earned that day.
Russell looked at my untouched toast.
Then at me.
“You know,” he said, “you don’t have to earn your coffee.”
I laughed.
But something inside me cracked.
I had spent most of my life earning everything.
A paycheck.
A day off.
A meal.
A favor.
A moment of kindness.
Russell seemed to believe some things could simply be given.
Not because I had performed well enough.
Not because I was useful.
