I Prayed for a Miracle—Now I Lock My Door at Night

wasn’t confusion or comfort or recognition.

It was offense.

Like I’d been caught stealing something that belonged to him.

“What are you doing?” he said.

His voice was rough, thick with sleep and resentment. Like every word was a weight he was throwing.

“I—Tyler, honey,” I whispered, because my mouth still doesn’t know how to say anything else to him. “I continue reading …