Chapter 1: The Weight of the Reeds
The very first sound that registered in my foggy consciousness was the agonizing, rhythmic groan of rubber wheels fighting against crushed stone. It was the sound of my own confinement. The second sound was my son’s voice, sharp and laced with an impatience that seemed to cut right through the damp evening wind rolling off Lake Michigan.
“Just keep pushing,” Derek muttered, his breath hitching slightly with exertion.
I kept my eyelids heavily hooded, presenting the world with nothing but a sliver of cloudy white. I maintained the shallow, rhythmic, over-medicated breathing pattern they had grown entirely accustomed to over the past eight months. Ever since the devastating stroke had effectively anchored me to this chair, the prevailing assumption in the house was that I was a fragile, shattered artifact, already halfway in the grave.
It was an assumption I actively cultivated. It was profoundly convenient for them, allowing them to speak with reckless abandon within my earshot. It allowed them to assume I was too oblivious to notice the mysteriously misfiled banking statements, the hushed, sudden appearances of high-priced estate lawyers in my living room, and the chilling way Derek’s new wife, Amanda, had subtly begun referring to my lifelong home simply as “the property.”
