"You don't rush things that can kill you if they fail," he said. That was his mantra.
My mom got better. Remission. Marcus held her in the driveway when we got the news, and I saw his shoulders shake for the first time.
I took the bird. I didn’t say thank you. But I didn’t slam the door again.
That was his way.
"You don't need me anymore. But I'll be here."
"You're not helpless," he told me one night, after she'd fallen asleep on the couch. "Helpless is a choice. And you were never taught to choose it."
I was twelve. My real dad had left three years earlier, and in my mind, any man who looked at my mom was an enemy. But Marcus didn’t knock again. He just sat on the porch step, pulled out a small pocketknife and a piece of wood, and started whittling.
I wanted to fall apart. Instead, I made a list. Meals for the week. Medication schedule. Ride coordination for her chemo. Insurance calls. Marcus showed me how to start a spreadsheet, how to talk to doctors without crying, how to sit in silence when there was nothing to say.