Mom’s diagnosis, I organized medication, coordinated appointments, drove to her house twice a week, and spent Sunday afternoons with her.
We talked about books.
Her garden.
The neighbors.
She had detailed opinions about every person on the street and absolutely no intention of losing them simply because her body had started becoming less cooperative.
I never considered taking care of her heroic.
It was simply necessary.
And I was able to do it.
Then there was Ethan.
Ethan Donnelly was thirty-three when we married.
He was a software architect.
He
