He texted lines that sounded caring and felt like hooks:
“He needs me.”
“You’re hurting him.”
“Don’t be cruel.”
I didn’t answer. I saved everything.
Adam kept improving. Slowly, stubbornly, like his body was finally allowed to hope.
“Can we just be normal?”
***
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A week later, we were home, and our apartment looked the same, but it felt like we’d survived a storm. Adam sat at the table, stirring batter from a box mix because neither of us had energy for anything fancy.
He glanced up at me. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
He smiled, small and real. “I don’t want to be famous.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Good. Because I don’t want to share you with strangers.”
Adam leaned into my arm. “Can we just be normal?”
I kissed the top of his head. “Yeah. We’re going to take up all the space we need.”
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