I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

My orthopedic surgeon, a practical man with kind eyes and an economy of language I had come to respect, told me afterward that the replacement looked good and that I had done the right thing not putting it off any longer. I remember the white blur of the recovery room ceiling, the antiseptic smell, the heavy ache of having been put back together by force and skill. I remember waking fully to the sound of a cart rattling in the hallway and seeing Beverly sitting in the visitor’s chair with a magazine open on her lap and a paper cup of coffee gone cold by her elbow, as though she had been keeping watch over an ordinary afternoon rather than my cut-open body.

“You did great,” she said before I could ask. “Doctor says you’re officially bionic.”

I laughed and then regretted it instantly because everything from my waist down seemed to object at once.