She Sold Her Hair

For ten straight days in the hospital, she took intravenous fluids, nutritional supplements, and specialized care.

I stayed by her bed every day, though she still flinched whenever a nurse touched her arm.

The damage ran deep — she’d been trained to ask permission just to eat, to sleep, to use a phone.

One quiet night she looked up at me with wet eyes. “You’re really not angry that I kept my illness from you so long?” she asked.

Shame washed over me.

“I’m the one who should be asking your forgiveness,” I said, holding her hand. “I left you alone for years and let myself believe comfortable lies, because it was easier than facing the truth.”