“That you were giving up too much.”
I stared at her.
She continued before I could respond.
“I kept seeing the ways you helped him. I kept wondering what he might need from you in the future. I convinced myself I was protecting you.”
Her eyes dropped.
“But I wasn’t seeing your friendship clearly.”
The room became very quiet.
“I was so focused on what Noah might need from you,” she said, “that I never stopped to notice everything he gives you.”
And suddenly, I saw the last twelve years differently too.
The ice cream after my driving test.
The ridiculous dinosaur drawing in his locker.
The porch after my heartbreak.
The quiet lunches after Dad left.
The hundreds of ordinary moments nobody else would ever know about.
Noah had never been a responsibility I carried.
We carried each other.
“So what’s your condition?” I finally asked.
Mom looked confused.
