“How long?” I asked.
Diane gripped the wheelchair.
“Five weeks since I could speak properly. Three since I first managed to stand.”
Her voice was weak but unmistakable.
“How long?”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Diane?”
“I was afraid I’d lose it again. Then I was ashamed. I called the rehabilitation clinic myself,” she admitted. “I wanted to find out what I could do before I told you. I packed the bag because I thought they might ask me to stay for more therapy.”
“I was afraid I’d lose it again.”
“You could have fallen,” I said. “You needed to tell the nurse. You needed someone helping you do this safely.”
I pointed at my mother’s necklace.
“Why send Ben into my closet?”
“You could have fallen.”
“Ben told me you keep your mother’s picture in that box. I wanted to put it beside the letter I was writing you. I thought if I could look at her face, I might finally understand what it meant when I told you that you didn’t belong in this family.”
