The morning after the step, I woke up with a strange heaviness in my chest— not the despair I had been drowning in for months, but something else. Pressure. Expectation.
Yesterday, my right foot had moved forward. A miracle, everyone called it. My parents had cried, Jacob had laughed, Roy had clapped me on the back, and Ann… Ann had looked at me like I had singlehandedly rewritten the laws of gravity.
But what if it was just luck? A spasm, a mistake, some trick of my nervous system giving me a cruel illusion? The thought gnawed at me as I lay staring at the ceiling.
Ann's voice drifted in from the kitchen. She was humming —a small, ordinary sound, but I realized I hadn't heard her hum in months. She only hummed when she was truly at peace. My chest tightened. I didn't want to be the reason her song stopped again.
"Dennis?" She peeked in, apron still tied loosely at her waist, a stray curl brushing her cheek. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
I gave a half-shrug. "Like I ran a marathon in my sleep."
Her laugh was soft, affectionate. "That's because your body worked hard yesterday. Don't downplay it." She came closer, brushing her fingers against my forehead. "You gave us all hope."
Hope. That word scared me. Hope was fragile. Hope could break.
"Ann…" My voice faltered. "What if it doesn't happen again? What if that was the best I'll ever do?"
Her smile softened into something steadier, stronger. "Then we celebrate that best. But I don't believe that's the end. I believe it was the beginning."
I wanted to believe her. God, I did.
Balancing was a word I was starting to understand in ways I never had before.
Balancing between my job and my life with Dennis. Between grading essays and rushing home for his therapy sessions. Between being his partner and his caregiver, his cheerleader and his anchor.
Some days, I felt like I was failing both worlds —too tired at work, too stretched at home. But then I remembered the look on his face yesterday when his leg moved. That flicker of hope, raw and trembling, was worth every sleepless night.
I carried breakfast into the room —toast and porridge. He looked at it with a grimace. "Hospital food follows me everywhere."
I smiled and placed the tray gently on his lap. "Consider it fuel for your next big step."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think I'll manage another?"
"I don't think," I said firmly. "I know."
His silence was long, thoughtful. Then he sighed, a sound laced with both weariness and surrender. "You're stubborn, Ann."
"And you love me for it," I teased, though my voice wavered with emotion.
His lips twitched— the closest to a smile I'd seen in days.
The next therapy session came with a storm of nerves. My palms were slick as Jacob wheeled me into the rehab hall. He was already cracking jokes.
"Don't worry, cousin," he grinned. "If you fall flat on your face, I'll post it online for sympathy likes."
I glared at him. "You're supposed to encourage me."
"That was encouragement," he insisted. "Just… modernized."
Ann rolled her eyes, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. She was just as nervous as I was.
The therapist positioned me again, hands on the walker. "Let's try for two steps today."
Two steps. My heart hammered. Yesterday had felt like a miracle— was I really about to gamble it all again?
Ann's hand brushed my arm. "I'm right here."
I took a breath, clenched my jaw, and pushed. My leg trembled, but it moved. One step. My chest soared.
Then another— halting, shaky, but undeniably mine.
"Two," the therapist said, her voice trembling with pride. "That's two, Dennis!"
The room erupted. Jacob whooped like I'd won the Olympics. Roy clapped slowly, his smile calm but shining. My mother pressed her hands together, whispering a prayer. My father's eyes glistened though he tried to hide it.
And Ann… she laughed, cried, and nearly collapsed into me all at once.
I looked at her and, for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't thinking about what she'd lost being with me. I was thinking about what we might still have.
That evening, I sat grading papers at the table while Dennis rested nearby. His parents were in the other room, Jacob had gone out, and Roy had excused himself politely after dinner. For the first time all day, it was just us.
"Ann," Dennis said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.
I looked up. He was watching me, his eyes softer than I'd seen in months.
"Why do you stay?" he asked.
The question hit me like a blow. We'd had this conversation before, but tonight it wasn't bitter. It wasn't despair. It was wonder.
"Because you're mine," I said simply.
His throat worked. "But… the struggles, the long road, the uncertainty—"
"All of it," I interrupted gently. "I choose all of it. Because I choose you."
For a long time, he said nothing. Then he whispered, "I think I'm finally starting to believe you."
I smiled, my chest swelling with warmth. "Good. Because tomorrow, we're aiming for three steps."
He groaned dramatically, but his eyes gleamed with something new. Something fragile, but real.
Hope.
That night, as I tucked the blanket around him, he caught my hand and held it tightly.
"Ann," he murmured, half-asleep, "I'll keep fighting. Not just for me… for us."
I bent down, kissed his forehead, and whispered back, "That's all I ever wanted."
And for the first time in months, I went to bed with my heart light, knowing we had turned a corner— not toward perfection, but toward possibility.