When Eric suggested it, he said it like he was offering me a compliment.

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“Pen, I really think you’re the only person I’d trust with her right now.”

We were sitting at the kitchen table—the one I’d refinished during lockdown. He was holding a mug he hadn’t washed, wearing a shirt I’d folded. He said it casually, like we were discussing groceries or weekend plans.

His mother, Julia, had fallen. Hip surgery followed. Rehab. And now she was coming home.

Not alone.

She needed help with everything—standing, bathing, meals, medication. And apparently, she needed my company too.

“You work from home,” Eric added, sliding the mug toward me as if that settled it.
“She doesn’t want strangers. And honestly, I don’t trust anyone else. You’d do it right. You’d care.”

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There it was—the compliment wrapped in expectation.

“I’ll help when I can,” he said, which we both knew meant rarely.

We’d been married fifteen years. I knew the difference between being asked and being cornered.

So I said yes. Because that’s what I’d always done.

For five months, I woke before sunrise. I guided Julia to the bathroom, cooked bland breakfasts, adjusted pillows, tracked medication alarms. I squeezed conference calls between caregiving tasks and reheated the same cup of coffee three times before finishing it.

Julia was never unkind.

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“Thank you, sweetheart,” she’d whisper, like she was afraid I’d disappear if she didn’t say it enough.

Eric, on the other hand, slowly vanished from his own life.

irst, there were promises.

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“I’ve got 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 come home, check on the kids, check on Julia like it was a box to tick, then retreat into his office. Some nights, he left again after dark, claiming he needed “quiet” to finish work.