The call went unanswered.

After that I sat on the nursery floor and watched my mother warm two bottles in a borrowed kettle.

My prosthesis was new.

I had worn it through rigorous rehabilitation, but climbing our staircase remained difficult, especially while carrying anything.

That evening I made a list on the back of an old envelope: formula, pediatrician, diapers, groceries, extra crib sheets, doctor’s appointment for my leg.

I wrote “ask for help” at the bottom, then stared at the words.