“I told him you weren’t broken.”
Mom squeezed my hand.
“Then Noah said something I’ve remembered for six years.”
“What?”
Tears slipped down her face.
“He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t know how to fix people. I only know how to stay.’”
I couldn’t speak.
Suddenly, all those quiet lunches came rushing back.
Noah sitting beside me.
No questions.
No pressure.
Just presence.
Then Mom revealed the secret she had carried for six years.
“I asked Noah to promise me he would look after you.”
I stared at her.
“You asked him that?”
“I was falling apart. Your father was gone. You barely spoke to me. Noah was the only person who could still make you smile.”
According to Mom, Noah hadn’t hesitated.
He had simply said:
“Okay.”
Then Mom looked ashamed.
“But after that, I started making a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“For years, whenever you defended Noah or changed your plans because someone excluded him, I worried you were giving up too much for him.”
I went silent.
“I kept thinking about what Noah might need from you,” she continued. “I never stopped to notice everything he gives you.”
