The first weeks were uneven. She double-checked the locks and slept with a lamp glowing. Sometimes she snapped, “Don’t hover,” and I stepped back, then cried quietly in the laundry room where she couldn’t hear.
We rebuilt through small rituals: tea on the porch, quiet walks, photo albums only when she asked. One evening she studied a picture of herself at three and said, “I don’t remember your voice the way I wanted.” I swallowed hard and said, “Then we’ll make new memories. As many as you want.”
On her next birthday, we bought two cupcakes. She lit two candles and said, “One for who I was, one for who I am.” We sat side by side in the rocking chair, our knees touching, and for the first time, the room felt like a room again.
