1. Soldiering On Alone

SOLDIERING ON ALONE

" J ust get through the deposition," I tell my reflection. "You can do it, Lily Thompson. You're tough. You take no shit. It's just some cramping. You're fine."

A vicious wave of searing agony slices through my midsection, doubling me over at the sink. I grip the edge of the edge of the sink in both hands and breathe out a keening groan through gritted teeth. Suck in a shaky breath and then cry out and almost buckle to my knees as another wave hits.

I bend my knees and lengthen my spine, gasping as a third wave of excruciating pain tears through me. After a moment or two, it passes, and I straighten, letting out a long breath. Every woman dreads her period, but I particularly do. Ever since I first started my cycle at twelve years old, they've been brutal. They last more than a week usually, and I bleed so heavily it can be a medical problem. Birth control can help lessen the severity, but in an especially savage twist of irony, I'm extremely sensitive to the hormones in birth control. This means that if I take it, not only does my weight balloon like that blueberry girl in Willy Wonka, but I turn into a moody, unpredictable rage-beast with zero self-control and less filter.

Not a great look for a trial lawyer.

I let out another slow, shaky breath, pop another Midol, and take it with a handful of water from the sink. Not that anything short of pharmaceutical-grade narcotics does a damn thing for the cramping; I take the Midol as a placebo, hoping my mind will convince my body that it actually does something for the pain.

"Okay, Lily. Time to go. You've got this. Don't let the bastards see you sweat." I smooth my tight, ivory, knee-length skirt over my hips, tuck in the lacy black camisole, and tug the ivory blazer down. Adjust the girls. Fuss with my long, wavy blonde hair. Pivot on my heel to check my backside—less so to make sure it looks good, because let's be honest, my ass always looks good. No, I check it to make sure I haven't bled through yet.

I just changed my pad, so I should be able to get through the rest of the deposition, if it goes quickly. The key word here is should . I've always had heavy periods, but over the last few months, they've gotten progressively worse. I've had multiple bleed-through accidents, and just last month, the cramping was so bad I was forced to attend jury selection via Zoom because I couldn't get out of bed.

I'm starting to think I need to see a doctor. I've been resisting it because I hate hospitals and I hate doctors. Plus, I'm just too busy to deal with the waiting room and kicking your heels on the stupid bed with the stupid crinkly paper that makes my brain hurt every time I move. I tell myself I'm fine, and I tough through it.

But lately, it's becoming increasingly obvious that I may not be fine.

"Enough, Lily," I tell myself. “You're fine. Get through the deposition and get home."

The cramps have passed for now, it seems, thank god. I check my makeup once more and then exit the bathroom and head back to the conference room. My client is by the windows chatting with my associate on the case, Matthew. They see me enter the room and take their places at the long rectangular table.

The deposition takes twice as long as it should, and the cramps return with a vengeance. Having already delayed the proceedings twice, I have no choice but to just gut through it.

Fortunately, the deposition is the last thing on the agenda for the day, so when it's over, I pack up my things and beeline for the parking garage. I'm halfway home when I feel the cramps start up again, this time worse than they’ve ever been.

It's hard to see, hard to breathe, hard to focus. I sit at a stop light and fight tears, fight to breathe.

And pray to whoever or whatever higher power may or may not exist that I don't feel the dreaded gush .

"Just make it home, Lily,” I whisper through gritted teeth. "Make it home. Make it home."

My car is a cherry red Aston Martin Vanquish with white seats. I'm wearing a white skirt—well, ivory, but still. A gush right now would be catastrophic.

Five minutes from my condo, I get stuck at an intersection—emergency responder lights flash ahead.

"No, no, no, no," I whisper. "Please, please, please."

Ten minutes later, traffic hasn't moved. I check my mirrors and then make a laborious five-point U-turn and race around the block, trying to get home from the other direction. Unfortunately for me, everyone else has had the same idea, and traffic is a clogged-up mess, taking another ten minutes.

Crying from the pain, barely able to see through the haze of tears, I finally reach my building and pull down into the parking garage.

I'm pulling into my reserved spot near the elevator when I feel it—the gush.

"Oh god, fuck me, no, please god no." I slam the shifter into Park while throwing off my seatbelt and jump out of the car as fast as I can.

Too late.

A pinkish-red smear mars the hand-stitched Alcantara leather. My skirt is ruined, too, but I'm less concerned about that.

I collapse forward onto the roof of my car, bury my face in my arms, and cry.

"Ma'am?" A friendly, hesitant male voice says behind me. "Are you alright?"

"Yup," I say without looking up.

"It's just…You've, um…"

"Yup."

"You’re sure you're okay?"

I hold up one hand, thumb raised. "Yup."

"Ahhh…okay. If you're sure."

“I’m fine, thank you, though." I should make eye contact with the well-meaning stranger.

I let out a breath and wipe my eyes on the heels of my palms. Turn and face the speaker. He’s on the far side of middle age, portly but handsome.

"I appreciate your concern, sir," I say with a smile. “Just a very long, very bad day.”

It's October, a week before Hallowen, and it's been unseasonably cool and rainy lately, so he's carrying a windbreaker raincoat, which he extends to me. "Would you like to borrow this?"

I shake my head, hoping my expression says gratitude rather than murder. "No, but thank you. I'm just up on the third floor."

He shrugs. "All right. If you're sure you're okay. You have anyone you can call?"

Just drive the knife in deeper, man.

"No, I’m okay. I just need to get home, and I’m almost there. I appreciate your concern, but really, I'm fine."

Thankfully, the well-intentioned stranger heads for his car, leaving me alone in my misery. I lean in and grab my vintage Neverfull from the passenger seat, close the car door, and trudge for the elevator. Trudge is a generous term; hobble is more accurate.

I make it home to my condo—my safe place, my haven. All clean, modern lines with lots of natural light, minimalist black and white cabinets and furniture with a few brightly colored pillows for pops of color, framed Ansel Adams prints, and polished concrete floors, my condo is the one place where I feel okay.

I leave my bag on the kitchen counter and limp into the bathroom. Stripping out of my ruined skirt, I clean myself up and change into my baggy, comfy sweats and an old Georgia State hoodie I stole from an ex-boyfriend.

Pour a glass of Moscato and google how to get blood out of white leather seats.

Armed with a couple of different options to try and the necessary items, I head back down to my car and work on the stain. Half an hour of scrubbing, dabbing, and mixing cocktails of chemicals, and I manage to get the worst of it out, leaving only a faint pinkish tinge on the back of the seat near where it meets the backrest.

Good as it's going to get.

Now for the hard part.

I leave a voicemail for my OB/GYN's answering service requesting an emergency appointment. I order Thai delivery and cozy up on my couch—sitting on a towel because my couch is…you guessed it, white. You'd think someone with my issue would stay away from white, but I’m just drawn to it. White complements my skin tone and my hair.

My doctor calls back a few hours later with questions as to the nature of my emergency and an appointment time tomorrow morning at eight.

I take the appointment and email my boss telling her I'll be late. Emory, a senior partner at my firm, is familiar with my issue. She's gone to bat for me numerous times, filling in when I can't get out of bed and giving me time off when I need it. Yet again, she comes through, telling me not to worry about it, to take the day. Since we finished the deposition today, I can take tomorrow off.

Thank god.

I wish I had a girlfriend to call, someone to come over and commiserate with me over wine and ice cream and Vanderpump Rules . Or a boyfriend who could go get another bottle of wine and a pint of H?agen-Dazs and some painkillers.

Alas, I have neither.

I gaze across the living room at the framed photograph of me and my sister, Lisa, wishing for the fifty millionth time. "Miss you, LeeLee," I whisper.

Older than me by eight years, Lisa was my best friend, my everything. I idolized her. Tagged along wherever she went, whenever she'd let me. I helped her escape our house when our controlling, hyper-conservative, overbearing parents handed down unfair punishments for minor infractions. Tried to dress like her, do my makeup like her, talk like her.

And then she met Nathan Fischer.

We were a conservative Christian white-collar family with deep roots in the Atlanta area. Mom is an attorney; Dad is a judge. And Nathan Fischer wasn't even blue-collar. He came from nothing, and that nothing was broken. Lisa met him when he was a journeyman carpenter living with four other guys in a shitty house on the wrong end of town, working eighty and a hundred hours a week. He also wasn't a Christian. Being the oldest, the golden child who got straight As and got into the best schools yet stayed close to home, Mom and Dad had high expectations for Lisa.

So when she met Nathan and brought him to meet my parents, they were apoplectic. A carpenter ? Oh no, that simply wouldn't do, not for a Thompson. Lisa pointing out that Jesus had been a carpenter hadn't helped.

Lisa and Nathan had eloped to Las Vegas. Mom and Dad had cut her off and told me I wasn't allowed to contact her, which was the first major heartbreak of my life.

She'd DM'd me pictures of her and Nathan in Vegas being married by Elvis and her and Nathan in front of the Bellagio fountain.

I'd gone around Mom and Dad's no-contact rule, writing her letters and sending her emails and DMs on social media, and then when I left for college, I'd stayed in contact with her and even managed to get away to stay with her and Nathan a few times.

I liked Nathan a lot. He was impossibly good-looking, freakishly kind, funny as hell in a dry way, and worked like a dog to give Lisa the best possible life. He loved my sister with every fiber of his being, and I loved him for it.

She was killed by a semi almost ten years ago, and I haven't been the same since.

When Lisa was killed, I wasn't sure he was going to survive it. I think he almost didn't, honestly. I lost contact with him, without my sister as the go-between. And then, a few years ago, he popped up on my social media feed: he'd moved to a tiny little town in the Appalachians a few hours north, got re-married, retired from set-building for Hollywood—suck on that, Mom and Dad—and was making furniture and wood carvings. His wife was a rural doctor, and they had a baby girl, Leanne.

Lisa's middle name was Leanne.

And then, a few months ago, Nathan called me out of the blue. After a few minutes of awkward chitchat and catching up, I let out a sigh.

"Nathan?" I asked. "Cut the shit. You didn't call after all this time just to catch up with the sister of your dead wife. What can I do for you?"

He'd chuckled. "Never had the patience for bullshit, did you, Lily?"

"No, and even less now."

He chuckled. "You know I remarried?" he said after a moment.

"Yes. I saw a post about your woodworking business. I've actually seen some of your pieces in a few boutiques here in Atlanta. You’re very talented."

"Thanks. So, then you know Nadia and I just had a baby a few months ago?"

I smiled to myself. "Leanne."

His silence sang with the old, scarred pain of loss. "Yeah. Leanne. After your sister."

I'd choked on my grief, still raw after all these years. "What do you need, Nathan?" I tried for levity. "I'm not available to babysit if that's what you're after."

His laugh had been loud and unexpected. "Nah, nothing like that. Look, Lily, I know you're a trial lawyer, and this ain't your bailiwick, but I was hoping you could help Nadia and I get our wills sorted out."

"Your…your wills?" I'd blown out a harsh breath. "You aren't…?"

"No, no," he'd said, filling in quickly where I'd trailed off. "We’re both doing great. It's just…I lost Lisa, and Nadia lost her husband to cancer, so we both sorta have…" A pause. "We want to be prepared, just in case. For Leanne."

"Oh. Yeah, no problem. I can help with that."

He sighed. "That'd be great. We don’t expect any kind of family discount. We'll pay your rate."

"That's offensive, Nathan Fischer. Lisa may be gone, but you're still my brother-in-law. I won’t take your money."

He'd invited me up to their property the next weekend, so I'd made the drive and helped him and his lovely, delightful wife, Nadia, get their wills established.

That property, though, my god. It was the most peaceful place I could imagine. Lisa would have loved it. Twin log cabins with metal roofs, deep covered porches, a placid, private lake…there wasn't a sound other than the chirp of birds and the sawing song of cicadas.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking about Nathan right now, or their property. I'd stayed in the second cabin the weekend I was there. Nathan had turned it into a workshop and office for his business, but the office doubled as a guest room. It was quaint, comfortable, and quiet.

Outside my downtown Atlanta condo, there's an extended blare of a horn and a loud crash, followed by shouting and then sirens.

That cabin sounded nice right about now.

"All right, Miss Thompson," my doctor says as he breezes into his office. "How are we feeling?"

I barely suppress a sigh. "Well, Dr. Malachi, I’m here for an emergency appointment because I bled through three overnight pads in as many hours. The pain is so excruciating I can barely function. So all in all, I'd say I’m not feeling that great."

"How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?" he asks.

"Well, I've had heavy periods my whole life. But then, about three months ago, the bleeding and cramps got exponentially worse." I grit my teeth as a wave washes over me right then. When it passes, I continue. "I'm pretty tough, Dr. Malachi, but I'm starting to think that maybe there's something wrong."

He puts on a pair of reading glasses, the kind that click together at the bridge, hanging from his neck. He spends a few moments examining the ultrasound results and consulting his notes from the pelvic exam. After a minute or two, he removes the glasses and lets them hang from his neck again.

"I wish I had better news, Ms. Thompson, but you have fibroid tumors on your uterus."

Static roared in my ears. A tumor ?

He was still speaking, but all I heard was the “ wah-wah-wah wah-wah” of a Charlie Brown adult. I held up my hand, and the wah-wah-wah stopped. I took a few deep breaths and looked at him. "I didn't hear anything after the word tumor." I swallow hard. "Like, cancer?"

He smiles gently. "That's what I was just explaining, Ms. Thompson. No, fibroid tumors are benign—non-cancerous."

"So…can you remove it?"

His smile dims a little. " Them , Ms. Thompson. You have several."

"S-several?"

"Unfortunately, yes. They’re the reason for your heavy periods. But one of them has grown quite large and is the underlying cause for your current symptoms."

"So…what…" I take a deep breath, press my fingers to my temples, and try again. "What are the options?"

He leans back in his chair. "Well, normally, I'd recommend a myomectomy. It removes the tumors while leaving the uterus intact."

“Great," I say. "I like my uterus. I'd like to keep it."

He winces and turns it into a professional smile. "Unfortunately, that's no longer an option, I'm afraid. Medication, ablation, embolization…there are less invasive options available, but…" he trails off with a sigh.

"But I don't have a tumor—have many tumors. So the only option, then, is…?"

"A full hysterectomy."

I sink back in the chair, eyes burning. "You have to remove my uterus."

"Yes. You'll recover, and the bleeding and cramping will cease."

"But I'll never have children."

"Again, Miss Thompson, I wish I had better news for you. I'm very sorry." He tries another encouraging smile. "There are many options available these days—"

I cut him off. "I've had some eggs frozen for a few years now. I know the options, Dr. Malachi. But the point is that I wanted to have children. As in, bear them myself."

He says nothing. What is there to say?

"It's the only option?" I ask.

"The only option that will work. I could try the less invasive options first, which I usually recommend. But in your case, you've almost certainly had these tumors undetected for many years. And then, for reasons no one can explain, your condition worsened rather suddenly, and now, there really aren't any other options. You'd just be wasting time chasing alternatives that I can promise you will not give you the relief you deserve."

I blow out a shaky breath. "Very well. If you say it's the only option, I have no choice but to believe you."

He smiles yet again, and I feel an irrational haze of anger at that stupid, polite, flat, fake fucking smile. I want to punch it off of his stupid, polite, professional, fake fucking face.

I tune in to what he's saying.

"…A second opinion. I can recommend several other excellent doctors if you'd like.”

I shake my head. "Are they going to give me a different diagnosis?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss Thompson. There isn't much ambiguity here." He turns his screen so I can see the ultrasound results, and he points to round blobs, and his voice goes back to the wah-wah-wah .

"Look, Dr. Malachi," I cut in. "The point is, a full hysterectomy is my only option. I could see a hundred doctors and they'd all tell me the same thing, right?"

"Yes, exactly."

"And without the procedure, the bleeding, the cramping, all the super fun stuff I’ve been dealing with will just keep happening?"

"If not worsen.” He hesitates and then plows on. “I feel compelled to point out that while it is rare, there have been cases of exsanguination."

"I could bleed to death ?"

"As I said, it's rare but possible. If you bled heavily enough that you passed out somewhere and no one found you, yes, you could, in theory, bleed out."

I cover my face with both hands. "Jesus help me."

"Miss Thompson, I don't want to scare you—"

"Too late for that, Dr. Malachi. I've been scared. When you bleed as badly as I have been and experience the level of pain I have, you get scared. And with the way it’s been getting worse, yeah, I can see that happening as a worst-case scenario." I resist the urge to run away and pretend this isn’t happening. "I really don't have any option, then. Schedule the surgery."

"Miss Thompson, if I may…" he trails off, hesitating.

"Yes, doctor?"

"Do you…do you have anyone to support you?"

I snort. "I'll be fine, doctor. Just get me on the schedule as soon as possible."

"You have to be on bed rest for two weeks after the surgery, Miss Thompson."

"I'm most likely not the first woman to go through this alone, Dr. Malachi, and I doubt I’ll be the last. I'll be fine. I'm tough. Just get it over with as soon as possible, please."

He doesn't like my answer, but what can he say?

Nothing.

There's nothing to say.

Yes, my parents are alive, but I wouldn't call them if I was on my deathbed. Not when they couldn't be bothered to attend their own daughter's funeral, much less offer sympathy or support for their grieving son-in-law. You'd think supposed Christians would have more compassion.

With the surgery scheduled and a folder full of pre-op instructions in hand, I go home, call Emory, and give her the news that I’ll be taking an extended leave of absence.

Oddly, I feel nothing but numb.

Hysterectomy. Cool. Bye-bye, uterus. Bye-bye, children I'll never have.

A bottle of winter white, carryout lasagna from the Italian place a few blocks away, and a nice long limited documentary series on rapey yoga cults take my mind off of things.

Sort of.

Four and a half weeks later, I'm now uterus-free and still in a lot of pain. The first two weeks were the worst of my life, physically. I could barely move. Everything hurt. The painkillers constipated me. I watched TV until my eyes hurt, read until my brain swam, and doomscrolled until I literally threw my phone across the room.

And that was day one.

I am not an idle person. I work hundred-hour weeks regularly; my billable hours are consistently top for the whole firm. I'm on track to make partner in a few years, and I’m not even forty.

Being idle for six weeks ? I'm going to go insane.

I haven't seen another person other than the delivery boys. No one at the firm has called to check up on me other than Emory, and she was asking when I'll be able to come back to work.

There's no one to talk to about it. No one to tell that I'm grieving.

But, what would I say? That I’m grieving a body part? Children I don't have? I'm not married. I've never dated anyone longer than four years. I'm thirty-eight and married to my job.

It's the point of the thing.

I soldier on alone.

I take up crocheting and discover that I hate it and I’m horrible at it.

Thanksgiving sucks.

A turkey drumstick, shitty mashed potatoes, and stuffing that's drier than the Sahara, all delivered to my door from a nearby grocery store.

Yum.

I'm feeling a bit better, finally. I can walk around the condo fully upright, no hunching, no gasping, no pausing to catch my breath halfway between the bedroom and living room.

I'm looking forward to going back to work, if only because the last six weeks have made it abundantly clear how lonely I am and that I have no life outside of work. I have no friends. No boyfriend. My coworkers don't give a shit.

The delivery boy from my favorite Thai place might miss me if I died, but that's about it, and that’s only because I tip like a crazy person.

With Thanksgiving over, I usually start decorating for Christmas—historically my favorite holiday. I've never minded celebrating alone. I usually buy myself something extravagant and spend the day eating myself sick and watching Christmas movies in my pajamas. Maybe get a little day-drunk.

This year?

I just don't have it in me to care.

December first. Six in the morning. I'm awake because my internal alarm clock has no chill and doesn’t care that I've been off work for almost two months.

I go back to work tomorrow.

Yippee.

I'm in the kitchen waiting for coffee to brew. Thinking about the drive, and the mountain of work it'll take to get caught up on the cases I’ve missed.

I hear a thunk somewhere overhead—odd but not concerning.

Pour myself a cup of coffee and shuffle sleepily to my couch. Sip and blink, trying to wake up.

There's a tremendous crash from the direction of my bathroom, followed by the sound of a waterfall.

"The fuck?" I mutter, setting down my mug and hurrying toward the noise.

Halfway into my bedroom, my bare foot splats into cold, sopping-wet carpet. Another step, and the wetness is at my ankle.

"No," I whisper. "No, no, no, no!"

I stand in my bathroom doorway, aghast, horrified, and stunned in paralysis. The ceiling over my shower has collapsed, shattering the glass. Drywall is everywhere, glass is everywhere…

And an absolute ocean of water is pouring from the ceiling. Hundreds of gallons a minute.

It's at my calves. Flooding into the living room.

I spring into action. Well, "spring" might be an overstatement, as I'm six weeks post-surgery, but still. I hurry as much as I can, grabbing armfuls of my favorite outfits from my closet and shoving them haphazardly into a suitcase. My best purses go into another. I shove my comfy clothes, undergarments, lingerie—because it’s expensive and it makes me feel good about myself—and my best shoes into a third.

Phone, laptop, and chargers all go into my purse. Jewelry goes into another bag.

It takes a few painful trips, but I get everything down to the lobby, soaked from the knees down. The manager has assured me that they're aware of the problem and have shut off the water, but I know the truth.

It's too late.

My condo is destroyed.

My furniture, whatever clothes I didn’t grab, everything. It'll be months before it's fixed.

Where do I go?

What do I do?

For some reason, losing my condo like this is the last straw.

I collapse to my butt on the floor of the lobby, sobbing. Someone helps me to my feet. I let the person escort me…somewhere.

An office.

Paperwork on a desk, a computer screen showing a losing game of solitaire, and a vape pen on a charger.

"Is there anyone you can call?" A voice says. Wah-wah-wah wah-wah . "Ma'am?"

I blink, shake my head, wipe my face. "What?"

The manager is a tall, thin man with graying hair in a Picard-like U, wearing an expensive suit. "I asked if you had anyone you could call. Until you're able to make alternate arrangements while repairs are completed."

"N-no," I whisper. "I'll just get a hotel."

But then a thought occurs to me. There is one person who might be able to put me up.

And it might be just what I need right now.

"Actually…" I pull out my phone and find the contact. Dial. It rings three times before he answers.

"Lily," Nathan says. "Hi. What's going on?"

Words lodge in my throat—there are too many.

"Lilith?"

I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump. "Nathan, hi. Um. Sorry to bother you."

“Not at all. We're just packing. What's up?"

"Packing?"

"Yeah, Nadia, Leanne, and I are spending Christmas in Hawai'i. So. You sound…sorry, but you sound upset."

"I…my condo flooded."

"Holy shit. Are you okay?”

"I just had surgery. Well, six weeks ago. I was supposed to start work again tomorrow. I don’t know where to go. I don't know what to do. I lost everything. I'm alone." It all just pours out. "I miss Lisa. I don't have anyone."

"Wait, wait, wait. Surgery? For what? Are you okay?"

"Hysterectomy," I whisper. "Fibroid tumors."

"Jesus, Lily. Why didn't you call sooner?"

"What are you gonna do, Nathan? Send your wife to babysit your dead wife's sister while I was on bedrest?"

"Yes! She's a doctor. She'd do it in a heartbeat. You're still family."

I sniff hard, swallow. "I'm fine. I just…I can’t handle any more, Nathan. I…" My eyes blur, and it takes every ounce of courage I have to ask what I need to ask. “Can I stay in your workshop?"

"Absolutely." There's a pause. "Hold on.” Another pause. "Hey, Lily. So, I just talked to Nadia. We've been trying to find someone to house sit anyway. Tess, Nadia's best friend, is out of town too, on a last-minute work emergency."

"Nathan…"

"Why don't you stay in the house? You'd be doing us a favor anyway. It'll be more comfortable than the futon in my shop office."

"Are…are you sure?" I whisper. "I don't want to be any trouble. I know it's weird."

There's a rustling, and then a smooth, quiet, kind female voice comes on the line. "Lilith? This is Nadia.”

“Hello."

"Please come stay.. Please? We need a housesitter."

"I'm Lisa's sister. Won't that be…" I trail off, at a loss for how to finish.

"You're family. We named our daughter after your sister, Lily. It won't be weird, I promise. We would love to have you come stay while we're gone."

"How long?"

"Well, I've gotten a friend from Atlanta to cover my rounds for a month. We haven’t taken a vacation, well, ever, so we're going big. We won't be back till after the New Year. If your condo is still not done, you can just stay in the shop. We'll fix it up for you so you'll be more comfortable."

"Nadia…" I swallow hard. "Thank you."

"Of course! And you should have called sooner, Lily. You shouldn't have been alone after a surgery like that."

"Oh, I was fine. I've been taking care of myself for a long time." I'm a lawyer, of course I'm good at bullshitting. And also, the best lies are rooted in truth: I really have been taking care of myself for a long time.

"Nathan can come pick you up," she says after a moment; I found myself wondering if perhaps she knows I'm lying but isn't calling me on it.

"Oh don't be ridiculous," I say, restraining myself from letting it come out snappish and mean. I force softness into my voice. "I'm perfectly capable of driving."

"Lilith, are you certain ? Everyone heals at a different pace, and if you aren't at a hundred percent—"

"Nadia," I cut in. "I'm okay. Maybe not fully a hundred percent normal, but I haven't been normal…I dunno, ever? I'm fine. A little sore, but I'm absolutely capable of making the trip without any problems. I promise."

"Alright, well…as long as you're sure."

"I am. I'll see you guys soon."

We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I sit alone in the manager's office, puzzled and marveling.

It galls me to the core, but I ask the manager to help me load my bags in my car, program the address of the cabins into my GPS, and head north.

Merry Christmas: my life is fucked.