The sentence landed between us.
I said nothing.
His breathing quickened.
“I can’t unpack groceries without you deciding I need sleep.”
“You put spinach in a cabinet.”
“I noticed.”
“After I said something.”
“You didn’t.”
He stopped.
Confusion crossed his face.
I had said nothing about the spinach.
He looked from the cabinet to me.
His speech slowed further.
“I don’t want you seeing all of it.”
“All of what?”
“How useless I am.”
“You are not useless.”
“I can’t put on one shoe without you kneeling in front of me.”
“That does not make you—”
“I know. Surgery. Brain injury. Rehabilitation. Temporary. I know every word.”
He shoved the bread onto the counter.
“I am tired of the words.”
“Noah.”
“Finish it yourself.”
He left the kitchen.
His limp worsened halfway down the hall.
The bedroom door closed hard behind him.
I stood among the groceries with my hands shaking.
The rational part of me understood.
Fatigue.
