I had learned another kind of endurance from my mother.
Two years before June was born, Mom had been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease at fifty-eight.
I was twenty-six.
She faced the diagnosis the way she faced almost everything else in her life—with dignity, stubbornness, and very little interest in being pitied.
She had raised three children after my father left.
Her philosophy had always been simple.
If something needs to be done and you are capable of doing it, you do it.
Not when it becomes convenient.
Not when someone promises to appreciate you.
You see the need.
Then you act.
After Mom’s diagnosis, I organized medication, coordinated appointments, drove to her house twice a week, and spent Sunday afternoons with her.
We talked about books.
Her garden.
The neighbors.
She had detailed opinions about every person on the street and absolutely no intention of losing them simply because her body had started becoming less cooperative.
I never considered taking care of her heroic.
It was simply necessary.
And I was able to do it.
Then there was Ethan.
Ethan Donnelly was thirty-three when we married.
He was a software architect.
He was intelligent, funny, thoughtful, and genuinely loving in ways that made loving him very easy in the beginning.
If I had a difficult shift, he noticed.
Sometimes dinner would already be waiting when I got home.
If I mentioned wanting something in passing, he might remember three weeks later and surprise me with it.
During our first year of marriage, he was the kind of partner I had hoped existed.
