I dragged my left leg behind me, the pain radiating up to my shoulder. My grandmother had always said this house had solid bones, but tonight the distance between the bed and the doorway felt like miles.
In the master bath, I pulled myself up using the edge of the porcelain sink. My face in the mirror looked gray, the skin bruised beneath my eyes.
I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, waiting for my breath to return. The silence in the house was heavy, different from the quiet nights before the accident.
I reached out to steady myself against the wall. My fingers brushed the smart-lock security hub mounted near the bathroom door, its green light blinking steady and bright in the dark.
I crawled back to the bed, my knuckles sore from the low-pile carpet. Sophie had turned over, her small doll tucked under her arm.
I pulled the quilt over us both and stared at the door.
The morning light was thin and gray through the kitchen window. I leaned heavily on the metal cane, each step a slow, deliberate calculation.
Sophie sat at the wooden table, her bare feet dangling inches above the floor. She watched me with wide, quiet eyes.
On the laminate counter, a stack of crusty plates sat next to a half-empty box of generic cornflakes. David had left the milk carton out, the cardboard damp with condensation.
I reached for the orange prescription bottle on the shelf. The white safety cap felt welded shut against my weak grip.
I pressed the bottle against my palm and twisted, but my wrist gave out, sending the plastic container rolling across the floor.
Sophie slid off her chair and picked it up. She handed it to me without a word.
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said, my voice dry. “Can you help Mommy open this?”
She tried with her small fingers, but she was too small. I ended up using the edge of the kitchen counter to pry the lid loose, my breath hitching as the movement pulled at my stitches.
I swallowed the blue pill with a sip of tap water from a plastic cup.
