The front door is still propped open. Summer light spills across the hallway floor. She made it inside on her own. She told you she didn't need you. And the way she said it, sharp and tired at the same time, is still sitting in your chest like something lodged. Now she's at the window. Just looking out at the neighbor kids and the sprinklers and the street she used to run every morning before school. Six months ago, Marisol was a runner. Now she wheels past the trophy shelf without looking at it. You've been rearranging your whole life trying to soften every edge, and somehow that keeps making things worse. She doesn't need you to carry her. She needs you to figure out the difference between helping and hovering, before the distance between you becomes permanent.