“And I also have my parents.”
She leaned forward.
“Those things are not competing with each other.”
Then she said something even harder.
“I’ve been trying to help for two years. You kept telling me you were fine.”
I looked down.
“You lost twelve pounds, Mom.”
“I know.”
“You stopped eating.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to let you disappear inside Dad’s illness.”
Her voice became firm.
“He literally wrote you a letter telling you not to do that. I’m going to hold you to it.”
Then she opened another folder.
Karen already had a plan.
She had spent months researching professional home-health services.
Certified aides could come to our house for four-hour or eight-hour shifts.
Two aides could alternate days.
Six days of help every week.
David could stay home.
I could sleep.
I could eat.
I could leave the house.
And according to Karen’s calculations, we could afford it without selling anything.
“You spoke to Robert?” I asked.
“Last week.”
“Our financial adviser?”
“Yes.”
Then she explained something I hadn’t known.
David had added her as a secondary contact on our accounts in 2020. He had called Karen himself.
He had told her that someday I might need help but would refuse to admit it.
“He planned all of this,” I whispered.
Karen shook her head.
“He planned the parts he could.”
Then she touched the letter.
“He wrote this for everything he couldn’t plan.”
That afternoon, I contacted the home-health agency.
The coordinator, Diane, asked about David’s condition.
For once, I answered every question honestly.
How often he needed help.
What I had been handling alone.
How little I slept.
How exhausted I was.
She didn’t judge me.
She simply listened.
Then she said,
“We can start Monday.”
That gave me two days to tell David.
That evening, Karen stayed after dinner.
I sat beside David on the bed.
“I found the letter.”
He looked at me.
Then, after a moment, he said,
“I wondered when you would.”
I almost laughed.
“You hid it behind the drawer.”
“I didn’t want you finding it too early.”
“You calibrated the hiding place?”
“I tried.”
Then I told him about the nursing facility.
The tour.
The room.
The crying in the parking lot.
Everything.
David listened quietly.
“So you were going to send me there without telling me until after you packed?”
