Endings rarely happen in a single hour; they arrive in a series of admitted truths. My husband moved into the spare room for a time, then packed a small suitcase and left without ceremony. Pain lived beside relief. Grief made its calendar. So did gratitude.
The town kept talking. I learned to look up, to buy groceries without narrating myself to strangers. A friend sat at my table and asked, “Is this really what you want? People will remember.”
At the ivy-wrapped house, caregiving became our daily liturgy. Pills at two. Soup on the stove. Pages by lamplight. We kept the curtains open more often. It wasn’t defiance; it was refusal to keep pretending that care is only legitimate when no one sees it.
“You gave me back my mornings,” he said one day, watching me finish a paragraph. “I wake up wanting the day again.”
I cried—soft, grateful tears that had a different shape than the ones from the living room floor. That night I stayed in the small bedroom at the end of the hall. We slept like people who had set down a heavy thing. In the morning, we poured coffee and watched light move across the table as if it were a guest we both loved.
What Caregiving Taught Me About Love and Dignity
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