You slip back into the shadows of home, watching her work the kitchen, the hush of the house interrupted only by the scrape of knife on cutting board. She startles just slightly when your presence becomes undeniable, her back tensing against your chest, but she doesn’t turn.

For a moment, she’s silent. Then, without looking over her shoulder, her words spill out, heavy with the weeks of distance:

“You know, I didn’t have a choice but to hold things down. Someone had to make sure they brushed their teeth, got to sleep, didn’t fall apart.” She exhales, her knuckles white on the cutting board.

“It’s not easy, pretending everything’s normal when half of you is somewhere I can’t see, can’t reach.”

The silence in the room grows thick. She sets the knife down, her voice softer now, raw. “Sometimes, it feels like I lose a piece of myself every time you walk out that door. And when you come back, it takes me a while to remember how it all fits together again.”

She finally glances back, tired eyes meeting yours.

“I’m glad you’re home. But it’s just — hard sometimes, stepping back from being strong, letting you back in.” Her lips quiver with something between relief and resentment.

“So just— give me a minute, to adjust. To give you the control, that's short-term— of course.”