PART 22

Marcus came over that Thursday with takeout and a folder he did not open until my son was in the shower.

“Your sister called my office again,” he said. “She used the word harassment.”

“Documenting an injury is not harassment.”

“I told her receptionist that. I also told her that if she contacts you to negotiate the medical facts, she should stop.”

He slid a single page across the table. It was a draft of a no-contact letter I could send if the porch visits continued.

“I do not want a war.”

“You want a perimeter,” he said. “Those are different.”

I signed a copy for him to keep. I did not send it that week. Mom stayed away. Dad texted once: Your mother is angry at me. I am still not asking you to bring him over.

That text was the most useful thing he had managed since the muted television.

After Marcus left I stood in the hall and listened to my son hum off-key through the bathroom door. The hum was new. Or rather, it was old and had come back. He used to hum when he brushed his teeth. He had stopped for seventeen days.

I did not mention it.

Some recoveries should not be turned into speeches.