His care still mattered.
But caring for him did not require surrendering myself to everyone else.
I could arrange proper help.
I could give the rehabilitation center the information it needed.
I could make sure his prescriptions were accurate and his appointments were not missed.
What I could no longer do was remain the invisible pair of hands holding the entire family together while they pretended I contributed nothing.
The pill organizer sat on my kitchen counter.
Seven plastic sections were marked for each day, with smaller doors for morning and night.
I had filled it two evenings earlier while Dany colored beside me.
That ordinary box held hours of phone calls, pharmacy visits, dosage checks, and quiet fear.
To my family, it was simply something that appeared each week.
They never asked who made it happen.
I rested my fingertips on the lid and considered what setting it down would actually mean.
