Then she pulled me into such a strong hug that my glasses nearly fell off.
Nobody demanded an explanation.
Nobody asked why I had vanished.
Someone handed me a glass of wine.
Someone else immediately complained about the book.
I hadn’t even finished reading it.
Nobody cared.
For two hours, I sat with women I had known for years and felt pieces of my old self quietly returning.
When I drove home, I cried again.
But these tears were different.
The next morning, I told David about book club.
He looked unbearably pleased with himself.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
“My face is handsome.”
“Your face is irritating.”
“You still married it.”
“I was young.”
He grinned.
And I realized how much I had missed this.
Us.
Part 7 — The Guilt Didn’t Disappear
Four months have passed.
David still lives at Meadow Ridge.
His health hasn’t improved much.
There are good days.
There are difficult days.
And there are days when I leave his room, sit in my car, and cry before driving home.
But I am sleeping.
I am eating properly.
I see Janet more often now because our visits no longer consist entirely of figuring out how to move her father safely from the bed to a chair.
I see our grandchildren again.
Last Saturday, I took them for ice cream.
For almost two hours, I didn’t think about medications.
Then, the moment I realized that, guilt rushed in.
That still happens.
Perhaps some part of the guilt will always be there.
But I understand it differently now.
Guilt isn’t always evidence that I’ve done something wrong.
Sometimes guilt is simply grief pretending to be a judge.
Last week, David asked me whether I still had the letter.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My nightstand.”
“Your side?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
His eyes sparkled.
“In case you start becoming ridiculous again.”
I laughed.
Then his expression changed.
He reached for my hand.
“You know what scared me most?”
“What?”
“That you would keep me at home until you hated me.”
My chest tightened.
“I could never hate you.”
David raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
“No.”
“You hated me a little.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
Then stopped.
He smiled.
That made me cry.
“I hated being needed every minute,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“I hated being frightened all the time.”
