embarrassed about needing help.”
Embarrassed.
There it was.
The word she had probably been waiting to use.
I reached for my overnight bag and opened the side pocket.
Ryan frowned.
He had not seen the second envelope because he had been too busy checking his phone at the discharge desk.
The hospital social worker had given it to me quietly before I left.
She had asked me whether I felt safe and respected at home.
I had nearly lied.
Then I thought of Patricia’s chair in the closet.
So I told the truth carefully.
Not everything.
Enough.
Inside the envelope were three numbers and a referral sheet.
A senior services advocate.
A housing attorney.
A non-emergency documentation line for elderly homeowners who felt pressured inside their own home.
When I placed it on the table, Cassie’s hand slipped off the counter.
Ryan’s mouth opened.
No words came out.That was
