Dylan asked me to help him up from the garden bench and hated the look on his own face when he had to say the words.
“Ivy. Can you give me a hand?”
I stopped walking and turned. He was gripping the arm of the bench, one leg stretched out stiffly. His mouth was set in a hard line.
“Of course.” I moved to his side and braced him as he stood. “You overdid it.”
“I know.” Once he was upright he didn’t let go of my arm right away. “I thought I could get up the way I always have. My body disagreed.”
We walked back toward the house slower than usual. He kept his eyes on the path.
“I hate this,” he said.
“I know you do.”
“I hate the way it makes me feel. Small. Dependent.”
I opened the door for him. “Needing help with a bench doesn’t make you small.”
“It feels like it does.” He sat heavil
