Dr. Whitcomb took my arm and guided me back into the chair.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
I did.
Diane’s arrival.
The settlement.
The accusations.
Noah’s refusal.
The mug breaking.
The headache.
The sentence about saving money for future care.
Sleep.
The blankness that morning.
By the end, my hands were shaking.
“I made it worse,” I said.
“How?”
“I yelled.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“Touch him without consent?”
“No.”
“Prevent him from leaving?”
“No.”
“I brought him into the room.”
“He asked to go.”
“I should have known.”
“You are not responsible for predicting every reaction his injured brain may have.”
“I am responsible for protecting him.”
“You are his partner, not his nervous system.”
The sentence cut through me.
I looked away.
