Chapter 11 - The Love That Needed More Hands
“Mom, how far did he get?”
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
Betty wiped her cheeks.
“Three blocks.”
Dad looked horrified.
“I went outside?”
She nodded.
“You were wearing your slippers.”
He stared at his hands.
“I don't remember that.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
My chest tightened.
“How did you find him?”
Mom looked toward the fireplace.
“Mr. Wilson saw him standing near the corner. He called me and stayed with him until I got there.”
I covered my mouth.
Dad began shaking.
“Betty, I didn't mean to leave you.”
She immediately moved closer.
“I know.”
“I wouldn't go away on purpose.”
She held his face between her hands.
“I know that too.”
He looked frightened.
“Was I trying to find our apartment?”
“Yes.”
“The one we lived in after we got married?”
She nodded.
Dad looked toward the old chandelier.
“I liked that place.”
Mom laughed softly through her tears.
“The kitchen was so small you couldn't open the refrigerator and the oven at the same time.”
He smiled.
“I fixed the cabinet door.”
“Three times.”
“Did it stay fixed?”
“Eventually.”
They laughed.
Then Mom began crying again.
I watched her carefully.
She was exhausted.
Not just tired from a long day.
The kind of exhausted that comes from listening for footsteps at night.
From worrying about whether the stove has been turned off.
From checking every door before going to bed.
From loving someone so much that you become afraid to sleep.
I reached for her hand.
“Mom, you can't keep handling this alone.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
Dad looked at her.
“Have I made your life miserable?”
Her expression changed immediately.
“No.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Betty.”
She drew a long breath.
“Robert, caring for you is sometimes difficult.”
His eyes filled.
“But loving you isn't.”
He stared at her.
She continued.
“I can be tired and still love you. I can need help and still want to be your wife.”
Dad looked down.
“I don't want to be a burden.”
Mom shook her head.
“You're my husband.”
“That's not the same thing.”
She considered his words.
Then nodded.
“No, it isn't.”
That surprised him.
Mom continued.
“You're right. Being married doesn't mean I should pretend I never get tired. And it doesn't mean you should feel ashamed when I need another pair of hands.”
Dad looked at her.
“Then what do we do?”
I moved my chair closer.
“We make a plan together.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
I took a folded napkin and borrowed a pen from Margaret.
Then I wrote three things.
Safety.
Help.
Time together.
Dad leaned forward.
“What's that?”
“Our starting point.”
He studied the words.
Then pointed to the first.
“Safety.”
I nodded.
“We'll ask the doctor about the nighttime confusion, medication, and anything else that might be making it worse. We'll make the house safer without making you feel trapped.”
Mom nodded.
“We can look at a door chime, too.”
Dad frowned.
“Like an alarm?”
“A gentle one,” I said. “So Mom knows if a door opens at night.”
He thought about that.
“Would it wake her?”
“Probably.”
He looked disappointed.
“She's already tired.”
I squeezed his hand.
“That's why we need more help, not just another thing for her to manage.”
Mom looked at me.
I continued.
“We'll ask about in-home support. Someone who can come during the week so Mom can rest or go out without worrying.”
Dad looked toward Betty.
“What would you do?”
She smiled.
“Maybe have lunch with my friends.”
He nodded.
“You should.”
“Or go to church without rushing home.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe get my hair done.”
Dad smiled.
“I like your hair.”
Mom laughed.
“Thank you, Robert.”
Luca had been listening quietly.
Then he spoke.
“Melissa, if you need a more predictable work schedule while your family arranges support, we'll work that out.”
I looked at him.
“Sir, I don't want special treatment.”
“It isn't special treatment to plan around something important.”
He paused.
“And it shouldn't depend on whether the employee happens to be somebody I know.”
I thought about all the times I'd seen coworkers struggle to balance their jobs with elderly parents and sick children.
He continued.
“We need a clearer family-leave policy for everyone.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
He looked toward Mom.
“Mrs. Carter, you don't need to solve this tonight. But you do deserve help.”
She smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti.”
“Luca, please.”
She nodded.
“Thank you, Luca.”
Dad leaned back.
For several minutes, we talked about ordinary things.
Which neighbor could help in an emergency.
Which appointments were already scheduled.
What Dad still enjoyed doing himself.
We agreed that he should continue choosing his clothes, helping with simple meals when someone was nearby, and taking part in family decisions.
We also agreed that safety couldn't depend on whether he happened to remember a promise.
He listened carefully.
Sometimes he asked the same question twice.
Nobody sighed.
Nobody rolled their eyes.
And when he forgot what we'd been discussing, I pointed to the three words on the napkin.
He read them again.
Then nodded.
“That's a good plan.”
Mom leaned against his shoulder.
“It is.”
For the first time all evening, she looked as though she could breathe.
Then Dad reached into his coat.
He took out a little notebook.
I'd never seen it before.
The blue cover was worn at the edges.
He opened it carefully.
Inside were lists.
Names.
Important dates.
Simple reminders.
My birthday.
Mom's medications.
The address of our family home.
A note reminding him where he kept his wallet.
He turned several pages.
Then stopped.
“Melissa, I wrote something I wanted to ask you.”
I looked at him.
“What is it?”
He pointed to a page.
At the top, in his uneven handwriting, he'd written:
For when I can't remember Betty.
My mother went completely still.
Dad looked toward her.
May you like
His voice was barely audible.
“If one day I look at my wife and don't know who she is, how will I make sure she knows I never stopped loving her?”
