She criticized the way I seasoned vegetables.
She once told Ethan:
“She reads too many instructions. A woman ought to know when bread is done by smell.”
But affection came slowly.
That made it real.
There were nights I resented everyone.
That part matters.
Caregiving stories become dishonest when the caregiver is written like a saint.
I was not.
I got angry.
Tired.
Short-tempered.
Sometimes I sat in the bathroom for ten minutes because it was the only room where nobody needed anything from me.
Ethan helped when he was home.
