This Thing Is Not Like The Other

“Honey, I’m broken,” Ian uttered from the recliner. I looked at him hard, seeing the strain in his face.

“What happened?” I asked forcefully. My whole body went heavy with an unbridled knowing, the word broken triggering a flurry of panic.

It was right before New Year’s that my father was paralyzed. My grandmother died twenty-one years ago tomorrow. My lost son’s due date is just a few weeks away. And even though I know, in a far-off, cerebral way, that my husband sitting uncomfortably in a chair is not the same thing as the tragedies that have cost me so much, I couldn’t help but immediately go to that place where my husband in a chair meant that everything was about to come tumbling down.

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