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Late-stage dementia was like an empty house that the tenant had checked out of.
“Well, I guess you can’t always rely on feeling in love. That comes and goes. It’s a decision, too, you know. You have to look after it. The more you can make the other person feel loved, fill their tank as it were, the more they have in their reserve to make you feel loved. It’s a cycle. I used to try and plan little surprises when I could if ever things were getting stale.”
Fred held her for a long time, the grief heavy between them. At least there were two people to carry it now.
She was tired of being so alone, of swimming upstream, of holding on to bitterness and regret. Her shoulders sagged. She’d been carrying this weight for so long. What might it feel like to let it go? To forgive, even?
