From that day on, she became Andrew’s primary caregiver.
She managed his medications, monitored his symptoms, and navigated every terrifying hospital visit with quiet grace. Every time he opened his eyes, she was there. Spoon-feeding him soup. Adjusting the thermostat. Reading aloud from the newspaper when he was too tired to hold it.
She never wept. Never scolded. Never asked, “Why me?”
The nurses often whispered among themselves, admiring her strength. One even said, “You must love him very deeply to do all this.”
Grace just nodded, her smile never reaching her eyes.
As Andrew’s body withered, his world shrank to the four walls of their master bedroom and the quiet rhythm of her footsteps. His once vibrant complexion dulled to a jaundiced yellow. His voice, once booming, became a mere whisper.
