I asked whether I could get a copy of the postoperative instructions.

“Of course,” she said.

“They’re yours.”

That sentence settled inside me.

For the past week, instructions had been coming from Agnes as if she owned the right to determine what happened to my body.

Here was a medical professional reminding me that I was a patient, not an employee in my mother-in-law’s household.

As we were leaving, a message arrived from Lucas.

Mom says if you come home and apologize, we can put this behind us.