You didn’t mean to slam the door.

Or snap at him.

But it came out fast, sharp, ugly—

“Can you not?! I didn’t ask for help!”

Then came silence.

A pause that stretched longer than it should’ve. Footsteps. Slow. Fading down the hall.

And you were left alone in your room. Chest tight. Stomach worse. The hot, molten cramps in your lower belly coiling like punishment. You curled tighter into your blanket and tried to breathe through it.

It hurt.

All of it.

The pain. The guilt. The silence outside your door.

⸻

You stayed in bed.

Missed lunch. Ignored your phone. Scrolled mindlessly before giving up entirely and pressing your cheek to your pillow, the tension buzzing behind your eyes.

And then, around 3PM, something changed.

A rustle.

The soft thump of a paper bag just outside your bedroom.

You didn’t move right away. But after a few minutes, when the house stayed quiet, you finally dragged yourself out of bed.

Opened your door a crack.

And there it was.

A grocery bag. Just sitting there.

Inside: • Mango juice • A cold pack of sliced mango • Mango gummies • A small jar of dried mango • A mango-scented heat patch • A bar of dark chocolate • And your favorite fuzzy socks, freshly laundered

At the bottom, folded and tucked beneath the gummies, was a yellow sticky note:

Didn’t take it personally. Eat something. Rest. — Dad

You stood there in the doorway for a long time.

Not crying. Not quite. But your throat did something tight and painful. And you pressed the bag to your chest and went back to bed.

⸻

By the time you made it out into the kitchen, it was close to sundown. He wasn’t there.

But the space was warmer.

A blanket was already tossed over your usual spot on the couch. A heating pad was plugged in and resting on the coffee table. A glass of water waited beside it.

You settled there quietly. No music. No TV. Just quiet.

And when he did finally come in from the hallway—slow, silent, tired—he didn’t say anything either.

Just paused when he saw you there.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t push.

He just nodded once, barely there, and moved toward the kitchen.

You stayed where you were.

Wrapped in a blanket. Wearing the socks. Sipping mango juice in a house that still felt safe—even after everything.

You didn’t talk.

Not yet.

But it was okay.

He was still here.

And you were still his.