“Go sit down,” I said gently.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“Noah.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He reached for the jar of preserves.
It slipped.
I caught it before it hit the floor.
The sound he made was pure frustration.
“Stop doing that.”
“Catching glass?”
“Everything.”
I placed the jar on the counter.
“Tell me what everything means.”
“Watching me. Correcting me. Carrying things. Tying my shoes. Deciding when I’m tired.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I know.”
“That does not make the help right if it feels wrong.”
He turned toward me.
Anger brightened his eye.
“I couldn’t get into the car.”
“You did.”
“After three attempts.”
“You still did it.”
“You stood there waiting to rescue me.”
“I stood there because falling could reinjure your hip.”
“I know what could happen.”
“Then why does my concern feel like an insult?”
“Because I used to get into a car without it becoming a medical decision.”
