“You’re not less than anyone else,” he’d say firmly whenever Hannah cried about missing school dances or avoiding crowded places.
“You hear me, Hannah? You’re not less.”
Hannah’s world became necessarily small, centered mostly around her bedroom and the house.
Ray worked hard to make that limited world feel bigger and richer.
He installed shelves at Hannah’s exact height so she could reach everything independently.
He welded a tablet stand in the garage so Hannah could watch videos and do schoolwork comfortably.
He built a planter box outside her window for growing fresh basil because Hannah loved yelling advice at cooking shows.
When Hannah cried over the herb garden, Ray panicked completely.
“Jesus, Hannah, do you hate basil? I can plant something else!”
“It’s perfect,” Hannah sobbed, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.
Then Ray started getting tired in ways that seemed wrong.
He moved noticeably slower around the house, struggling with tasks that had never challenged him before.
He sat halfway up the stairs to catch his breath between floors.
He burned dinner twice in a single week, which was completely unlike him.
“I’m fine,” Ray insisted when Hannah questioned him.
“Just getting old.”
He was fifty-three years old.
Mrs. Patel finally cornered Ray in the driveway one afternoon.
“You need to see a doctor immediately,” she demanded.
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