Five months of carrying everything alone
For five months, I woke before sunrise.
I guided Julia to the bathroom. Prepared bland breakfasts. Set alarms for pain medication. Adjusted pillows. Heated compresses. Reheated my coffee until it tasted like regret.
I balanced work calls with caregiving. I muted myself during meetings to help her stand.
Julia was never unkind.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she whispered after everything, like she feared I’d disappear if she didn’t say it enough.
Eric, meanwhile, slowly vanished.
At first, there were promises.
“I’ll take the kids tonight.”
“I’ll handle dinner tomorrow.”
Then excuses.
“Late call.”
“Back-to-back meetings.”
Until eventually… he just wasn’t present.
He’d check on his mom like it was a task. Kiss the kids on the head. Then disappear into his office — or out the door.
His lies stopped being creative.
And then came Wednesday night.
I was on my knees scrubbing the bathroom floor after Julia didn’t quite make it in time. Bleach stung my nose. My back screamed.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
It was my best friend.
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