When they told me I’d never walk again, I didn’t cry. I just nodded, like they were reading a weather report. Sunny with a chance of paralysis. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want pep talks. I just wanted space—to grieve something I didn’t yet know how to name.

So when the nurse mentioned I’d need part-time help, I shut it down.
“I’ve got it,” I said.
I didn’t.

The kitchen was a battlefield. Showers were impossible. Dropped spoons became daily defeats.

Then Saara showed up.

She wasn’t what I expected. Younger. No syrupy sympathy. She didn’t talk to me like I was broken. She just asked, “Where’s your coffee?” and started making a cup like she’d done it a hundred times before.

At first, I kept her at arm’s length. No small talk. No personal questions. She came, helped, and left. Simple.

But then I caught myself laughing at one of her ridiculous jokes. I started setting aside books she might like. Articles I thought she’d enjoy. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped being a stranger.

And then one day, I dropped a bowl. I couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t pick it up. I just sat there—angry and defeated.

Saara didn’t rush to fix it. She sat on the floor beside me and said,
“It’s not about the bowl, is it?”
And something cracked open.

I didn’t want a caregiver. I didn’t want help.
But she made it feel like something else. Like maybe I hadn’t lost everything.

Then she told me she might be leaving.

We sat in the living room, her mug steaming in her hands, hair pulled back in her usual messy bun.
“I’ve been offered a position,” she said, quietly. “A full-time clinic job. Benefits, retirement… the works.”

“That’s… that’s great,” I said, even as my stomach dropped.

“It’s not here,” she added. “It’s three hours away.”

Just three hours. But far enough to mean that this—whatever this was—would be over.

I wanted to say, Please don’t go. I need you.
But instead, I smiled and said, “You can’t pass that up.”

She asked if I was mad. I told her I wasn’t. I lied.