I was forty-two when my father passed away, and by then, caring for him had become the rhythm of my entire life.
Eight years.
Eight years of hospital visits, medication schedules, sleepless nights, and quiet conversations in the dark when his pain wouldn’t let him rest. Eight years of putting everything else on hold—relationships, career growth, even the idea of building a family of my own. I told myself I had time. That there would be space for my life later.
Family
My younger sister, Emily, had her own life. A busy job, a husband, two young kids. I never blamed her for not being there more. At least, that’s what I told myself.