I took an extended leave from work. Days blurred together as I learned how to lift her without hurting her, how to bathe her with dignity, how to measure medication and monitor pain. The living room transformed into a space crowded with equipment, neatly labeled containers, and a faint smell of disinfectant that never quite faded.
Family members visited at first, offering sympathy and cautious advice. Some suggested professional care facilities. I always gave the same answer, steady and unwavering.
“She is my wife,” I said. “I will take care of her.”
To keep us afloat, I took on odd jobs in the evenings, basic repairs, tutoring, anything that paid cash. I returned home exhausted, my muscles aching, yet every night I sat beside Maya and read aloud from old novels or newspaper articles, describing the outside world in detail so she would not feel erased from it.
She rarely spoke. She nodded. She cried silently when she thought I was not looking. I told myself it was grief, frustration, the slow mourning of a life interrupted. I never allowed myself to doubt her condition, because doubt felt like betrayal.