“Why?”
“It’s mine.”
“You have it on your phone.”
“That’s not the point.”
Lola looked at Gloria.
“She is still in love.”
“Very observant,” Gloria said.
I covered my face. Lola placed the picture back beside the refrigerator.
“Then don’t mess it up again.”
She returned to the living room. Gloria smiled.
“Parenting is beautiful.”
“I hate this family.”
“No, you don’t.”
No. I did not.
Rose agreed to meet me at the intersection Sunday morning. Not to run. To review the decision. She stood beneath the pharmacy awning holding coffee. I arrived without a watch. She noticed.
“Good.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“I am recording growth.”
We walked through the intersection. No panic. Only memory.
On the opposite curb, Rose asked, “Why do you want to race?”
“To start honestly.”
“And finish?”
“If I can.”
“What does can mean?”
“Without hiding symptoms. Without using pain as proof. Without treating stopping as a moral failure.”
The list came without rehearsal. Rose’s face softened by a degree.
“Good answer.”
“Do I pass?”
“This is not a quiz.”
“Everything is a quiz.”
