I have—”

“You have a broken arm, cracked ribs, stitches, and a newborn,” Beatrice said gently.

“That is enough to have.”

My first instinct was to refuse.

Not because I wanted to be alone, but because accepting help felt like signing a confession.

My parents had trained me to believe assistance always came with a hidden invoice.

Favors were stored like weapons.

Shelter had strings.