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Maybe I got cold and didn’t check what I was pulling out of the drawer.

But the sweats...

You know what?

No, this isn’t a burden I want after having the best sleep of my life.

I’d rather spend the pain-free time I have relaxed before the perpetual headache sets in along with the reality of my situation.

At the closet, I take out a white dress with a sweetheart neckline and tiny violets stitched into the fabric.

One look in the mirror confirms my hair is all over my head because I forgot to wrap it last night, so my shower takes double the time it normally does. After cleaning my scalp with shampoo, I lather on a generous amount of strawberry-scented conditioner.

And I walk downstairs in a cloud of the same fragrance when I finish blow drying my hair and getting dressed.

“Good to see you feeling better, Ms. Delilah,” Victor greets as my feet hit the last step.

Stationed by the railing, he dips his head in acknowledgement.

I can’t help but hesitate beside him, neck craned to read his face, but it gives away nothing as he stares down at me.

“Something wrong, Ms. Delilah?”

“Why did you say that?”

The briefest flicker of confusion marks his countenance before Ms. Agnes’ voice interrupts his reply.

“Good, you’re awake. You’re late. Come sit down, I’ll get your pancakes out of the oven.”

Reluctantly, I break eye contact with Victor to find Ms. Agnes a few paces behind us, arranging a vase of creamy white calla lilies on a console table in the hallway.

Against my will, a blockade of emotions creates a painful lump in my throat.

“What’s wrong?” Agnes’ sweet voice loses some of its levity, her concern evident as she moves in on me.

My head moves back and forth, but the lump of emotions persists. My eventual words come out on a croak, “N-nothing. My father loved those flowers. That’s all.”

I put them on his grave even though Weston couldn’t afford a headstone.

I simply needed something to mark his eternal place in the ground.

Honoring him was nowhere near my mind when I bought them from the store.

No.

They marked his departure as much as they marked my freedom.

That was the only thing worth celebrating and I still remember using forty dollars I couldn’t spare to pay for them before I walked over three miles to his grave.

If I’d known then…

“Oh. That’s nice, honey.” Agnes shuttles me away from the hall, no doubt spooked by the stupefied look onmy face. “Come sit down, Delilah. Let me wash my hands and get your breakfast on the table.”

“You don’t have to serve me, Ms. Agnes. I can get it.”

“Hush,” she hisses. By now, it’s a loving sound coming from her and I smile at the routine of it all. I tell her the same thing every morning just to be met with a similar response.

So, I prop my hand under my chin and watch her move around the kitchen with ease.