Just so she could see Reginald Gilbert every single day.
That was it.
Even the mug I'd broken by accident.
It was the one May McClain had given him with her own hands, on his birthday.
No wonder he'd been so furious when it shattered.
I even remembered how, every time he took me out for a walk.
Reginald always made a small detour, bringing me to sit for a while at that café.
He'd order only the cheapest coffee on the menu.
Sipping it in tiny sips, drinking it slowly, so slowly.
When we left, May would chase after us and press a paper bag into his hands, saying it held fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.
When Reginald took it, his ears went red.
Yet all he gave was a polite, gentlemanly thank-you.
I sat in my wheelchair, tilting my head up to look at the side of his face.
And that little ache in my chest, I forced it back down.
The truth was, I should have known long ago.
The moment May McClain appeared.
Reginald had stopped belonging to me.
And I couldn't use the fact that I'd saved his life.
To bind him to my side by force.
He was born to be a bird that soars a thousand miles; he should fly toward the sky that belonged to him.
So that night, while Reginald was in the shower, I dug through his contacts and reached out to May.
"Hello, is this May?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Priscilla Fox."
The other end went silent for a moment.
"What do you want from me?"
"Could we meet in person?"
Sitting across from me at the café, May was so lovely to look at.
"I only think of Reginald as a brother."
"I think… he should have his own life, a home, a career of his own."
"May, could you help me talk him into it? Into giving me up?"
May let out a cold little laugh.
The look she gave me carried a trace of hostility.
"Aren't you the one who's been clinging to him all this time, holding your life-saving debt over his head?"
"Are you really that kind-hearted?"
I lowered my head.
"I never wanted to cling to him."
"Before, it was my fault. I held Reginald's whole life back."
"But now, I'm letting him go."
The guardedness and hostility in May's eyes slowly faded.
"So you do have a conscience after all."
In the days that followed.
Reginald came home later and later.
And the smiles on his face grew more and more.
When he went to shower, I leaned in close and smelled his clothes—there was a faint trace of perfume.
Exactly the same scent I'd caught on May that day at the café.
Reginald still did all the things that came with caring for me, every day.
But his movements grew more and more mechanical, like a robot running a preset program.
When he wiped me down.
He no longer spoke to me, just kept his head down and worked.
When he massaged my legs, he was rushed too; sometimes he'd finished before I even registered it.
Then he'd take a call and hurry off again.
Even on my birthday, he was out the entire day.
From the moment the sun rose, I'd been praying quietly in my heart.
"Please, please."
"Please let Reginald remember that today is my birthday, all right?"
"Let me have the last birthday cake of my life."
Every year before, Reginald would buy me a big cake for my birthday and let me make a wish.
But this time, I waited from before dawn until the sky went dark, praying quietly all the while.
And that cake never came.
Neither did Reginald.
At ten that night, I only got a phone call from him, full of apology.
"Sorry, Priscilla, I was busy working today and forgot to come home to make you dinner."
"There's some leftover rice in the fridge. Just heat it up and eat."
