Just the way he noticed.
The way he didn’t announce himself.
The way he made space instead of demands.
And that terrifies me. Because no one has ever taken care of me like this.
Without asking for anything back.
Without even asking if I wanted it.
By Friday, I’m bone tired.
The kind of tired that settles into your muscles and refuses to be stretched out. The kind that makes your brain fuzzy around the edges, thoughts slipping through your fingers before you can catch them. The kind that turns the walk to the train into something you have to psych yourself up for.
The Northwell holiday event is finally locked. Vendors confirmed. Staffing secured. Contingency plans layered on top of contingency plans. My inbox is quiet for the first time all week, and instead of relief, all I feel is the weight of everything I’ve been holding together.
Mom’s been better.
Better in the careful way that doesn’t let you relax.
Her pain has eased. The flare has receded. She’s laughing more, sleeping longer stretches. I know better than to trust it completely, but the reprieve feels like oxygen. Em is surviving med school on caffeine and stubbornness, coming home late, studying later, determined to outrun exhaustion the way we all do.
By the time I shut down my computer, it’s dark outside.
Friday night. Rush hour is long gone. The city is humming in that restless, end-of-week way that makes everything feel louder, heavier. I sling my bag over my shoulder and step out onto the sidewalk, already bracing myself for the walk to the train.
It’s cold enough now that fall feels real. Not crisp, not pretty. Just sharp at the edges. The kind of cold that sneaks under your coat and settles there.
I stop for a moment to adjust my coat and pull my bags up higher on my shoulder when I notice a man leaning against a black sedan right in front of me.
For a second, I ignore it. Chicago is full of black cars. But then he stands and approaches me.
“Ms. Bennett?”
I stop. Eyeing him cautiously. He doesn't look like a threat, but I don't know who he is or why he is here, waiting for me.
“Yes?”
“Mr. North asked me to take you home.”
My first instinct is to say no.
It rises fast and sharp, pride flaring, spine stiffening. I don’t need this. I can take the train. I always take the train. I’ve been doing it for years, rain or shine, exhaustion be damned.
“I’m fine,” I start to say.
Then my brain supplies images without my permission.
Mom is on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, trying not to wince when she shifts.
Em asleep at the kitchen table, notes spread everywhere.
The groceries from earlier in the week.
The way my legs feel right now, heavy, aching, done.
I glance at the car.
