My son looked me in the eyes and told me my bedroom was no longer mine.
He did it while I was still wearing the hospital bracelet.
The plastic band was tight around my wrist, the kind that leaves a red mark when you twist it too much, and the discharge papers were folded inside the pocket of my overnight bag.
Every breath pulled against my ribs.
Every step from the driveway to the front door had felt like a small negotiation with pain.
Ryan had helped me out of my own SUV with one hand under my elbow and the other holding his phone, because Cassie had been texting him nonstop since we left the hospital.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
I should have known then that the house had changed before I ever crossed the threshold.
The little American flag Patricia used to keep by
