The words were gentle.
Not accusing.
And because of that, they landed harder.
Rebecca looked at Daniel.
“I told him we had to change things.”
Daniel nodded reluctantly.
“She did.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“I said you liked helping.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course I liked helping.”
“I know.”
“No, Daniel. That is the problem. You thought because I loved doing something, I must want to do it forever.”
He looked down again.
I thought of Arthur.
For forty-eight years, he had taken out the trash every Tuesday and Friday.
He never minded.
Until arthritis settled into his knees.
One morning I found him standing beside the garbage cans in the snow, unable to drag them down the driveway.
He was furious when I hired someone.
Not because he loved garbage.
Because he hated needing help.
People change.
Capabilities change.
Wants change.
Love is supposed to notice.
“I believe you,” I told Rebecca.
Her expression broke slightly.
“About the conversation?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed her face, followed quickly by something else.
“But it doesn’t fix everything,” I added.
“I know.”
I reached into my handbag and removed the Saguaro Ridge brochure.
“I’m thinking about buying a place.”
Daniel stared at it.
