Leah
By the next Friday, I was home, cranky, and officially sick of being told not to lift things.
Everyone had opinions.
Liam had opinions.
Linda had opinions by text, which felt unfair because nurses should not be allowed to haunt you after discharge.
Olivia had opinions and delivered them while putting my coffee mugs on the lowest shelf “for your tiny wounded arm lifestyle.”
Bella had the most opinions.
“You can’t pick up laundry,” she told me that morning, standing in the hallway in her unicorn pajamas with her hands on her hips.
“It’s one towel.”
“It is a heavy towel.”
“It is not.”
“You have a shoulder hole.”
“I do not have a shoulder hole anymore.”
“You had one.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Daddy said no lifting.”
“Daddy is not the boss
