As his responsibilities grew, he sometimes stayed in Bellhaven overnight.
That meant most of Margaret’s daily care fell to me.
Not immediately.
At first she could do almost everything.
She folded laundry.
Cut vegetables.
Insisted on washing dishes even though she left water all over the floor.
When our son Owen was born, Margaret became his favorite person.
She would sit with him on the porch and tell him stories about storms, harvests, and Samuel.
For years, we functioned like a normal multigenerational household.
Then her body changed.
Slowly.
Cruelly.
Her hands stiffened.
Her balance worsened.
She developed heart problems.
Then tremors.
She needed help bathing.
Then dressing.
Then remembering medications.
The woman who once hauled feed bags eventually needed both hands to lift a glass.
That transition humiliated her.
I learned quickly that helping someone is not always kind if you make them feel powerless while doing it.
