Part of me kept whispering that a good wife should be doing those things herself.
But slowly, another truth appeared.
I liked not being his nurse all the time.
Admitting that felt almost shameful at first.
At home, our marriage had gradually become a list of medical responsibilities.
When had he taken his pills?
Had he eaten enough?
Was he constipated?
Was he dizzy?
Was the pain worse?
When was his next appointment?
Did he sleep?
Had he fallen?
Was he drinking enough water?
Was he safe?
Every conversation eventually circled back to his body.
At Meadow Ridge, trained people handled much of that.
And because they did, I sometimes got to be Linda again.
His wife.
I brought him coffee from the place he loved, even though he complained it tasted worse than it used to.
We watched old movies together.
David insisted that every actor born after 1980 mumbled.
When his hands shook too much to hold a book, I read detective novels aloud.
Sometimes we talked about absolutely meaningless things.
One afternoon, I spent nearly an hour telling him about Carol’s daughter and her messy divorce.
Halfway through, David frowned.
“I don’t even like Carol.”
“I know.”
“Then why do I know this much about her daughter?”
“Because you can’t get away.”
He laughed until he coughed.
And that was when I understood.
Care had not disappeared.
It had changed shape.
For a long time, I had believed taking care of David meant performing every difficult task myself.
But now other people could handle the lifting, medications, bathing schedules, and overnight emergencies.
I could hold his hand.
I could argue with him about movies.
I could bring coffee.
I could sit beside him without constantly watching the clock for the next pill.
I could love him without being completely consumed by managing him.
Three weeks after David moved into Meadow Ridge, I went back to book club.
I drove to Carol’s house.
Then sat in the car for ten full minutes.
My hands stayed on the steering wheel.
I nearly turned around.
I had been away so long that returning felt embarrassing.
What would I say?
Where had I been?
Why had I stopped calling?
Then I remembered the line from David’s letter.
Bring yourself.
I got out of the car.
Carol opened the door.
For a second, she simply stared at me.
