053: Home Sweet Home

Lily’s POV

The day had finally come. The sterile white walls of the hospital, the beeping machines, the faint smell of antiseptic—it was all behind me now. I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers gripping the thin mattress, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I was free. But freedom felt fragile, like a bubble I was afraid to pop.

My husband was there, as he always was. His broad shoulders moved with quiet purpose as he packed my things—a sweater I’d barely worn, a book I’d never finished, the cards and flowers that had brightened the room. His hands were careful, almost reverent, as if each item held a piece of me.

“You know,” I said, my voice light but trembling, “I’m not made of glass, Andrew. I can help.”

He paused, his eyes lifting to meet mine. They were dark, intense, but softened by something I couldn’t quite name. “You’re not lifting a finger,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Not until we’re home.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn’t helpless, but the words