Dirty gray water ran from the pitcher into Florence’s mouth while she twisted beneath soaking blankets.
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Chapter 20 / 27
Chapter 20 - THE WATER PITCHER
Florence’s biggest trigger remained water poured by someone else.
At restaurants, she asked for sealed bottles.
At family dinners, she filled her own glass.
No one challenged.
Then one summer afternoon at Lake Arden, we walked the public trail.
Hot.
Humid.
She grew tired.
I offered my bottle.
She shook her head.
We sat.
A volunteer ranger brought water.
Florence watched him pour from a large insulated cooler.
Her hand tightened.
I noticed.
“Want the sealed one in my bag?”
She looked at the cup.
Then at me.
“No.”
She took it.
Smelled it.
Sipped.
Nothing dramatic.
No applause.
She finished half.
Later she said:
“I hated that you noticed.”
“Sorry.”
May you like
“No. I hated needing anyone to notice.”
That distinction stayed with me.
