Page 132 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“Ramps for both entrances, a stair lift to the second floor, grab bars in all the bathrooms, and some mobility aids he’s been needing. The installation team can be there Friday morning if that works for your family.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled as relief flooded through me for the first time in a while. “Yes. That works perfectly.”
Friday morning, I drove to my parents’ house with the first smile I’d worn in weeks. The installation team was already there, rolling out blueprints and measuring doorways. My father sat in his old wheelchair, with anticipation flourishing in his highlighted eyes.
“Naomi, look at this.” He gestured to the team working on the front porch. “A ramp that goes all the way down to the driveway. I’ll be able to get to the car by myself.”
“I’m so happy for you, Daddy.”
“And upstairs, they’re putting in one of those chair lifts so I can get to my office again. There are fourteen years of case files up there that I haven’t been able to touch.”
The team worked efficiently, transforming the house I grew up in into a space designed to help my father regain his independence. My father supervised every detail, his excitement infectious. When they rolled in the new wheelchair with responsive controls and custom cushioning, his eyes filled with tears.
“Sir, if you’d like to try it out?”
My father transferred himself into the chair like he’d been doing it for years. The fit was perfect, the controls intuitive. He moved forward, backward, and turned in smooth circles.
“Brenda! Brenda, come see this!”
My mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She smiled at the joy her husband bestowed.
“It’s beautiful, Mason.”
“It’s everything. Look how quiet it is, and it’s smooth.” He rolled toward the new ramp, testing the incline. “I can go anywhere now. The grocery store, the park, hell—I could probably make it downtown if I wanted.”
We spent the morning watching him explore every feature and every modification.
“This is because of you,” he said, rolling up beside me. “Because you won that race. You gave me my life back.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
He pulled me into a tight embrace. “I love you so much, baby.”
Lunch was served on the back deck, and my father was positioned at the head of the table in his new chair. The sun was warm, the conversation light, and for the first time in a month, I wasn’t thinking about Christian or our broken arrangement or the emptiness that had taken up residence in my heart.
I was standing in the kitchen, loading plates into the dishwasher, when my phone buzzed. A text from Journey about dinner plans. I scrolled through my messages—business calls, client requests, the usual stream of professional obligations.
Nothing from Christian. Not that I expected anything, but the absence still stung.
I was reorganizing, sifting through my purse with my bill folder in my hand, when I dropped it and it popped open.
My mom reached for it and lifted the card that was sitting lopsided on the edge to the kitchen light.
“Trauma therapy. Anxiety disorders. Relationship counseling,” she said, reading the credentials.
“What’s this, sweetheart?”
“Just a business card.” I grabbed the business card and wallet and stuffed it back inside. “It’s for a therapist. Journey thinks I should talk to someone.”
“And why does she think that?”
“Apparently, I have trauma from my past marriage.”
My mother moved to the sink beside me, rinsing the serving dishes.
“And what do you think?”
“I do.” I rubbed my temples. “I broke off a beautiful relationship because of it.” I sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay enough to trust wholeheartedly again.”
