The in-laws show up once. Livia’s face goes pale when she sees the bandages. Enzo just pats my good shoulder and tells me I’m strong. I’ll heal.
I want to believe him.
My own parents are long dead. Can’t visit. Can’t judge my stupid decisions from beyond the grave.
Small mercies.
By the end of the first week, a few days after my second reconstructive surgery, I’m doing remote meetings. Propped up in bed with my laptop balanced on a tray table. Running the business from my hospital room because sitting still makes me think too much.
Thinking is dangerous.
Leads to guilt spirals I can’t afford right now.
Speaking of which, whenever the nurses need to change my dressing Jess and Ben are escorted out byJag. I insist on it. Won’t let them see what’s under these bandages.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Dr. Reeves tells me I’m healing faster than expected. Says she’s never seen recovery like this.
I laugh. Bitter. “And my money has nothing to do with that, right?”
She just gives me a look. Professional. Unimpressed.
“Your money got you the best care available.” She’s checking my chart. Making notes. “But healing still takes time. Still hurts. Money doesn’t change that.”
No. It doesn’t.
Money didn’t stop that bear from charging, either. Didn’t prevent my face from being torn open. Didn’t keep my daughter from almost seeing her father die.
All that wealth. All those resources. Useless when it mattered most.
Grizzly bears don’t give a fuck how many billions you have to your name.
The guilt is a constant now. Worse than the pain. Because the pain will eventually fade.
The guilt won’t.
I brought them there. Insisted on the trip. Loaded that shotgun. Made every wrong decision that led to this moment.
And for what? To teach Ben some bullshit about respect and courage?
She’s five. She should be coloring and playing with her stuffed snail. Not processing bear attack trauma in therapy twice a week.
When she hasn’t even finished processing the trauma of her mother’sdeath.
FUCK!
Yes.
I fucked up.
Monumentally.
And now everyone I love is paying the price.
The weeks crawl by. More surgery. More recovery. More morphine dreams where I’m falling into fires that never go out.
Ben brings me drawings. Stickers carefully placed on the blanket. Stories about what Frederick said or did.
