“I know.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
The same answer I had given Linda.
That realization unsettled me.
Rebecca continued.
“You paid for groceries even when I told you not to. Then I stopped telling you not to. You picked up the kids because it was easier. Then we stopped asking if you were available. You cooked because you were better at it. Then somehow dinner became your responsibility.”
Daniel stared at the table.
Rebecca’s eyes filled, though no tears fell.
“One day Emily asked me what Grandma’s job was. And Jack said, ‘She takes care of us.’”
My chest tightened.
“I love taking care of them.”
“I know.”
“That wasn’t a burden.”
“Not at first.”
The words were gentle.
Not accusing.
And because of that, they landed harder.
Rebecca looked at Daniel.
“I told him we had to change things.”
Daniel nodded reluctantly.
“She did.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“I said you liked helping.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course I liked helping.”
“I know.”
“No, Daniel. That is the problem. You thought because I loved doing something, I must want to do it forever.”
He looked down again.
I thought of Arthur.
For forty-eight years, he had taken out the trash every Tuesday and Friday.
He never minded.
Until arthritis settled into his knees.
One morning I found him standing beside the garbage cans in the snow, unable to drag them down the driveway.
He was furious when I hired someone.
Not because he loved garbage.
Because he hated needing help.
People change.
Capabilities change.
Wants change.
Love is supposed to notice.
“I believe you,” I told Rebecca.
Her expression broke slightly.
“About the conversation?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed her face, followed quickly by something else.
“But it doesn’t fix everything,” I added.
“I know.”
I reached into my handbag and removed the Saguaro Ridge brochure.
“I’m thinking about buying a place.”
