But affection came slowly.
That made it real.
There were nights I resented everyone.
That part matters.
Caregiving stories become dishonest when the caregiver is written like a saint.
I was not.
I got angry.
Tired.
Short-tempered.
Sometimes I sat in the bathroom for ten minutes because it was the only room where nobody needed anything from me.
Ethan helped when he was home.
He changed bedding.
Lifted his mother.
Drove her to appointments.
But work kept him away more than either of us liked.
One winter evening, Margaret had been calling every twenty minutes.
Water.
Bathroom.
Blanket.
Too hot.
Too cold.
Pain in her hip.
Pain in her shoulder.
Owen was sick.
Ethan was stuck in Bellhaven because of an equipment emergency.
At one in the morning, I helped Margaret back into bed.
Then I sat down and started crying.
Not quietly.
Ugly crying.
Margaret looked at me.
“Nora.”
