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I can live.
“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.
“Anything, sweetheart.”
“How about lamb rib eye with garlic and sage roasted potatoes?” I ask, watching Dad’s face closely.
His smile wavers for a moment before brightening again. “You’re mother’s favorite. I think it’s fitting for today.”
Leaving the store, we stop by the butcher shop I love before heading home.
When I walk into my family home, it feels like the love of a million memories wraps around me. It feels like Mom will come down the grand staircase at any moment and scold us for going to the store without her.
Or her laughter will sound up somewhere in the house.
“Oh my God,” Louisa, our housekeeper, shrieks from my left. “You’re home!”
She’s worked for us since I was in elementary school, so she’s practically family.
She comes to give me a gentle hug, then says, “I’m so happy.”
“That makes two of us,” Dad murmurs. “Louisa, will you get the bags from the car, please?”
“Of course, Mr. Davies.” She pats my arm. “Get settled in bed. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
I let out a groan. “I’m not going to bed.”
“You need to rest, sweetheart,” Dad says.
“I’ll rest in the living room,” I negotiate. “I’ve spent months in a bed.”
“Okay. As long as you’re not on your feet for long periods of time.”
I give Dad a playful scowl. “Dr. Bentall said moving around is good. It promotes healing.”
“Yes, but I know you. If I give you half a chance, you’ll stand in the kitchen and cook for the next three days.”
I scrunch my nose and pretend to pout as I walk in the direction of the living room. “I’ll rest for two hours, but then I’m making food.”
“Listen to your father, Skylar. We don’t want you to go back to the hospital,” Louisa chastises me.
“I promise to get a lot of rest, but I also want to get back to cooking. I need a lot of practice before I can return to work.”
“You’re going back to work?” Dad asks as he follows me.
“Eventually. Dr. Bentall said I should be able to return to work after three months.”
I sit down on the couch I’ve adopted as mine and grab the remote for the TV. Lying down, I tuck one of the throw pillows beneath my head.
Giving Dad a sweet smile, I say, “I won’t overdo it. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Can you bring my pillow from my bedroom?” I ask as I switch on the TV.
“Sure. Should I bring your blanket as well?”
I point at the throw draped over the back of the couch. “I’ll use this one if I get cold.”
