“Doing okay?” I asked, feeling like I’d done something wrong or alien by being natural with Crystal, when it was my mom who was out of place. Or was it guilt, because the little wrongnesses about my mom were in part due to the head injury, which was in large part my own fault?

“Doing better,” my mom said. “It warms my heart, seeing you two together. I’m glad you have each other.”

“I’m glad too,” I said. My foot hurt, so I picked it up off the ground, drilling the floor with my toe a bit. I felt like a kid with no idea what to do while being addressed by an adult.

“Coffee?” my mom asked.

“Sure,” I told her. “Please.”

“Maybe a breakfast sandwich? English muffin, meat hash patty, no egg?”

“Please. That’d be great.”

The only sounds as my mom made her way from the mirror in the hallway to the kitchen were the hiss of the shower and my mom’s faintly clunky footsteps. Trying not to clunk too much, but clunking nonetheless.

I had distinct memories from my childhood of those efforts. Being up late with Amy, a blanket around us and finished bowls of ice cream on the coffee table, a scary movie in the beta player, when Carol came in wearing her costume. Giving us a smile that was too ordinary and normal to be anything but a cover-up for the fact that things weren’t okay.

I grabbed a shirt from Crystal’s closet, and paused on seeing a sweater hanging up. Not my style, but it looked like it hadn’t been worn yet, and it looked a damn sight like it was going to be left behind. It was zip-up, which I knew Crystal had her kneejerk reactions to, with zipper tags, zipper and the brand-name button at the collar all in blued brass, the fabric transitioned in a smoky pattern from red to black, from left shoulder to right waist.

It was a lot, but it was a lot in a striking way that a superheroine in her known civilian identity could get away with.

I wore my own jeans, pausing to investigate my cramping foot before pulling on socks, then made my way to the kitchen, walking just enough that it wasn’t too apparent I was flying.

I put it on, then set about braiding my wet hair. I made my way to the kitchen, watched my mom for a minute while I finished the loose braid.

Her process of going about making breakfast was just a bit slower, a bit more measured out.

I pushed up the sleeves, and began helping out my mom with the prep, pouring out the coffee.

“How are you doing?” I asked. “Honest assessment.”

“Managing,” my mother said. “Everything’s fine if I concentrate.”

“I’m sorry, you know.”

“I know. I raised you, I know you. I will recover, don’t worry.”