My siblings reacted swiftly and efficiently. They talked about facilities, waiting lists, monthly costs—numbers passed back and forth like business figures. I stayed silent, because I already knew the answer I would give.
I couldn’t leave her somewhere strange.
I couldn’t hand her fear to strangers.
So I brought her home.
People warned me. They said it would be exhausting. That she might never know what I gave up. That love without recognition eventually turns into resentment.
I listened—and stayed.
Caring for her slowly dismantled the life I had built.
Work hours shortened. Then the job vanished altogether.
Money drained away into prescriptions, modified meals, safety rails, and quiet solutions for loud problems. My world narrowed to her routines, her moods, her fragile calm.
