Chapter 3 - MAYA’S BANDAGESTwo days earlier, Maya had been making dinner when a glass casserole lid slipped.
She caught it reflexively.
It shattered.
A stupid household accident.
No Evelyn.
No abuse.
No mystery.
Three cuts required sutures.
Two across the left palm.
One along the base of the right index finger.
Several superficial cuts elsewhere.
Our neighbor Dana drove Maya to urgent care because I was in Chicago and Chloe was already asleep.
The discharge instructions were clear.
Keep the wounds dry.
Avoid soaking.
No heavy gripping.
Return for increasing redness, drainage, fever, reopening, numbness, or severe pain.
I had FaceTimed her afterward.
She smiled into the camera.
“Looks worse than it is.”
Both hands looked like boxing mitts made from gauze.
“I’m coming home.”
“No.”
“Maya.”
“I can manage.”
“With what hands?”
“Your mom said she’ll come tomorrow.”
That should have made me more concerned than it did.
Maya and Mom had been clashing for years.
Nothing physically dangerous.
At least nothing I understood as dangerous.
Boundaries.
Criticism.
Keys.
Unannounced visits.
Parenting advice.
Mom rearranging our cupboards because “the workflow was embarrassing.”
I said:
“Are you okay with that?”
Maya hesitated.
Then:
“For one day.”
I heard the hesitation.
I chose the convenient half of the sentence.
That was mine.
I finished the Chicago meetings.
The final session ended a day early after a client canceled.
Instead of staying for the team dinner, I changed my flight and came home.
I did not warn anyone because I wanted to surprise Maya and Chloe.
May you like
That is why no one had time to clean the kitchen.
Or rewrite what I saw.
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