When I step into the kitchen, my mind already feels stronger. My mom, on the other hand, pinches the skin between her eyes and leans over her coffee on the granite peninsula. “You should stay home and rest,” she says to her cup.

I pour myself a glass of juice. “I’m fine,” I say, already believing it. “I’ll stay off my foot.”

She looks me over. The cut on my foot. The stitches on my head. My torso expanding and contracting, taking in air like it should. “Your head and lungs could use an extra day too.”

Like she needs to remind me that my body is defective.

My mom, always put together, wears an ivory cashmere sweater and pencil skirt. Her golden hair is slicked back in a ponytail, but her eyes are squinted like she’s battling a migraine. She presses her palms against the countertop for support as she stands. “I called Dr. Ericson’s office. They said he could squeeze you in on Monday.”

Dr. What’s-His-Name. “No.”

She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “You might need someone to talk to.”

I glance at her, caught off guard. It’s a plea, not a command, not a way to control all the things she can’t.

How do I tell her I’m better off on my own? Ericson might have given me a few good strategies to fight my demons, but even before the whole therapeutic-setting debacle, his weekly sessions were draining and ineffective. His idea of talking was to repeatedly prod about my nonexistent relationship with the dead twin sister I never met. With my dad savagely murdered, he wanted to talk about things that didn’t matter, and I don’t have time for that right now. I roll my shoulders back. “I’m fine.”

She wraps her fingers around my hand and squeezes. “No one’s expecting you to do this alone.” She waits, giving me a chance to respond, but I don’t know how to. We’ve dealt with everything so differently and for such a long time, I have no idea how to begin bridging that gap.

Her hand slides from mine and just like that, the moment has passed. She walks to her purse and rummages through it. Pulling two twenties out of her wallet, she lets them drop on the counter like leaves falling from a tree. “At least take a cab today.”

I have a sudden urge to warn her. Of what, exactly, I’m not sure. Don’t open any random packages delivered to the house? Don’t walk alone down our back alley? Don’t be surprised if someone tries to kill me today?

“Sorry again. About the cabinet.”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” she says, heading back upstairs for unnecessary last-minute touch ups.