But you can hand them water.
You can listen.
You can notice.
Sometimes that is the thing that changes everything.
One afternoon, a nurse stops you in the hallway.
“Mr. Martinez,” she says, “there’s a patient asking for you.”
You enter the room and find an elderly woman sitting by the window.
She looks embarrassed.
“My daughter says I imagine things,” she whispers. “But I heard her husband talking about my bank card.”
You sit beside her.
And you listen.
Because now you know.
Warnings do not always come loudly.
Sometimes truth speaks from the next bed, in a trembling voice, while everyone else is too busy to hear it.
Three years later, your life is smaller than it used to be.
But it is yours.
The house is quieter, yes.
But peaceful.
The rental property is safe.
Your children are grown and healing.
You work fewer hours because you finally understand that providing is not the same as disappearing into work.
On a warm evening in Pasadena, you sit on the porch with Don Julian, who now uses a walker and complains about every brand of coffee except the one you bring him.
Sofia and Daniel are arguing in the kitchen about who burned the tortillas.
The roses are blooming.
The wind chimes move softly.
Don Julian looks at you.
“Do you still miss her?”
You know he means Veronica.
You watch the sky turn gold over the rooftops.
“Sometimes,” you say.
He nods.
“That’s allowed.”
