It became permanent after my miscarriage.
Christopher had spent most of that afternoon in the hospital hallway answering work emails and telling people he would call them back.
Gertrude sat beside me.
She did not tell me everything happened for a reason.
She did not tell me to be strong.
She held a paper cup of water to my lips when my hands shook, tucked the blanket around my feet, and stayed until I fell asleep.
Years later, when arthritis twisted her fingers and made small buttons impossible, I began stopping by before church to fasten her coat.
When she could no longer drive at night, I took her to appointments.
When her memory started slipping, I labeled the drawers in the guest room and set alarms on my phone for her medicine.
Christopher thanked me in the casual way people thank someone for picking up milk.
He always promised he would visit her the following week.
