With Eleanor, I didn't have to pretend everything was fine.
Her children visited twice in fourteen months.
Both times, they brought paperwork.
After one visit, she told me, "The worst thing about getting old is that people start talking about you as though you're already gone."
In March, I confessed my feelings.
She laughed until she realized I was serious.
"James, I'm dying, and I'm old. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"And you're 22."
"I know that too."
In April, I proposed with a gummy candy shaped like a ring.
She laughed, slipped it onto her finger, and then grew serious.
"Look, if you're doing this for the money..."
"How can you even think that?"
"Because everyone else will."
"I don't want your money."
She studied me.
"You're not getting a cent from me."
"That's fine."
"I know," she whispered. "That's why."
I was reassigned from her care when I disclosed my feelings, but I kept visiting her outside my placement hours.
