My voice came out low and rough.
“They are. Not in the way you want them to be. Not in the way that makes you comfortable. But they are in my morning. In my hands. In my steps.”
Mark put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder.
“Jess,” he murmured. “Let’s just—”
She shrugged him off.
“No,” she said, staring straight at me. “This is going to trigger a wellness check. People are tagging the county office. People are saying ‘send someone.’”
I felt my stomach drop.
“You called them,” I said.
Her silence was a confession.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered. “I’m your daughter.”
“And I’m your father,” I said. “Not your project.”
That landed.
I saw it hit her in the chest.
She flinched like I’d thrown something.
For a second, we just stood there, staring at each other across the kitchen table like strangers.
Then Jessica whispered, almost too quiet to hear.
“I’m scared you’re going to die in that chair and no one will know.”
Mark’s voice was soft, careful.
“She’s not trying to control you, Jim. She’s terrified.”
I swallowed hard.
Because I knew that fear.
I’d lived inside it the day Sarah died.
That fear had hands.
It grabbed you by the throat and whispered, If you look away, you’ll lose them.
Jessica’s tears fell.
“I can’t lose you too,” she said.
And suddenly, the argument wasn’t about the leash.
It was about the fact that grief makes cowards out of all of us.
I took a slow breath.
Then I reached up and unhooked the leash from the wall.
Jessica stiffened.
“Don’t,” she warned.
I walked over to her.
Held it out.
“Come with me tomorrow,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Come walk with me,” I repeated. “One morning. Twenty minutes. If you still think I’m ‘dangerous,’ you can call whoever you want.”
Mark looked surprised.
