I pulled out the chair across from her, then paused.
“May I sit?”
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
So I sat.
During the next several weeks, I drove her to appointments.
I learned where to park.
I learned which elevator was quickest.
I learned that Emily hated grape-flavored medicine and pretended hospital pudding was fine because the nurses were busy and she did not want to trouble anyone.
I kept a folder in my car with her care plan, appointment papers, medication list, and insurance notes.
I called offices.
I wrote down times.
I showed up.
Not perfectly.
Not heroically.
Just steadily.
That was the part I had failed at before.
Steadiness.
Love is not always the speech you deliver when everyone is watching.
Sometimes it is the ordinary thing done on a day when no one claps.
A pharmacy pickup.
A drive home.
A chair beside a hospital bed.
One evening, after an appointment that drained her completely, Emily fell asleep on the couch while an old cooking show played softly.
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