It was my husband’s idea.
Eric sat across from me at our kitchen table — the one I refinished during lockdown — holding a mug I washed, wearing a shirt I folded, and said it like it was a compliment.
“Pen, I really think you’re the only person I trust with her right now.”
His mother, Julia, had fallen. Hip surgery followed. Then rehab. Then the quiet expectation that she would come home.
Not alone.
She needed help with everything: standing, bathing, meals, medication. And company. She especially needed company.
“You work from home,” Eric added, sliding the mug toward me like we were discussing dinner plans. “She doesn’t want strangers. And I know you’ll take care of her properly.”
There it was. The compliment wrapped around an obligation.
“I’ll help when I can,” he said.
Which we both knew meant rarely.
I said yes. Because that’s what I had always done in my marriage.
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