I stayed because there was no version of myself I could respect that walked away. Life narrowed into careful routines: pillboxes lined like soldiers, calendars tattooed with appointments, the hum of the baby monitor we used for her instead of a child. I lost track of who I’d been before her confusion, before her fear-filled eyes searched my face for a name she couldn’t find. Yet in the repetition—explaining, soothing, redirecting—I discovered a quieter, sturdier self, one built less on achievement and more on presence.

After she was gone, the silence felt like an accusation. Had it been enough? Had I? Her letter answered what she could no longer say aloud. She had seen the erosion of my life around hers and, in lucid anticipation, carved out one last act of recognition. The inheritance wasn’t just money; it was proof I had been witnessed, chosen, and fiercely loved, even as everything else slipped away.