Dragging my suitcase downstairs, I ran into Chris.
He was carrying Sharon into the house.
His face was etched with concern. He brushed past me, treating me like a stranger under the same roof.
His eyes never even glanced my way.
I had grown accustomed to this. With Sharon around, I was invisible to him.
Sensing the suitcase at my feet, Chris stopped in his tracks.
His voice was devoid of emotion. "Amber Norris, another one of your dramatic stunts?"
Sharon, clinging affectionately to Chris' neck, looked up at me. "Amber, I twisted my ankle, and since Chris said it's close by, he brought me here to take care of it. You don't mind, do you?"
It was just a twisted ankle.
I watched as Chris gently settled her on the sofa and then fetched an ice pack to soothe her foot. He treated her as if she were made of glass.
Once, when a car accident left me with a broken leg, requiring a family member's signature for surgery, I reached out to him.
His response was cold and detached, "A broken leg isn't life or death. Why bother me?"
Yet, he was the only family I had left.
He refused to sign the papers, so I had to drag things out. I troubled a friend who had the time.
Love and its absence were always evident.