she began crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet, exhausted tears of someone who had been trying to remain composed for far too long.
I made her a cup of tea.
Placed her medication beside it.
Then sat next to her.
“I’m sorry, Linda.”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t do this.”
“I know,” I said. “But I wish I’d recognized what was happening sooner.”
She reached for my hand.
And for a long time, neither of us said anything.
The following weeks were difficult.
Ethan called repeatedly.
He
