“I wasn’t snooping.”
“I know.” She taps the cane once against the floor. “That’s why I said anything.”
By March, the routine is so established that you stop announcing yourself and just knock twice and let yourself in when she shouts from wherever she is. Sometimes she is in the kitchen. Sometimes in the armchair. Once you find her asleep upright with a blanket over her knees and a crossword puzzle slipping off her lap, the whole room lit by late afternoon sun in a way that makes time feel both kind and merciless.
That is the day you see the first sign that something is very wrong.
The right side of her face seems slightly slack, her speech a fraction slower than normal. Fear cuts through you instantly. You call her name louder than usual. She startles awake, confused, then annoyed, which is reassuring in its own peculiar way. After a tense ten minutes and a very reluctant agreement, you get her to the hospital.
