Page 52 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
Without another word, I turned toward the elevator and rode it down in silence.
Soon, I was back on my floor.
My steps steadied as I moved forward, the cane guiding me in smooth, practiced arcs across the space.
Each tap, each pause, each shift in sound painted the room for me more clearly than sight ever could.
The familiar layout welcomed me back—desks, partitions, the subtle echo patterns I had memorized over weeks.
Something steady in the middle of everything that had just changed.
I sat down and resumed wrapping up my tasks.
My fingers moved across the keyboard with quiet efficiency, finishing reports, organizing files, documenting everything needed for a clean handover.
Five minutes passed.
Then my phone rang.
The sharp vibration against the desk made my hand move instantly. I picked it up without hesitation.
“Hello?”
“Miss Loretta,” a familiar voice said—gentle, professional, tinged with concern. “This is Zara’s teacher from her school.”
Everything inside me stilled.
Something was wrong.
“She’s developed a very high fever,” the teacher continued. “We’ve had the on-site doctor examine her in the clinic, but we recommend you take her home to rest.”
My chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
Zara.
A high fever.
“I’ll be there shortly,” I said immediately.
The call ended, but the weight of it lingered heavily in my chest.
Two weeks ago, I had enrolled Zara in a school, believing that being around children her age would help her with her autism.
And it had worked.
More than I expected.
Zara had thrived.
Every day she came home a little lighter. A little braver.
Her small voice, once hesitant, now carried more confidence when she spoke. Even her laughter—soft at first, uncertain as though she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to make it—had begun to grow into something freer.
Something that lingered longer in the air after she stopped.
I stood immediately, gathering my things with practiced efficiency.
My cane found the floor.
