He was 80 years old, and I thought I was only taking care of him for the paycheck
smiled. “Now this… this is living.”
We sat in the dim light, shadows dancing on the walls.
“Let me tell you something,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “When my wife was alive, we used to sit like this for hours. No TV, no distractions. Just talking.”
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
“Everything. Nothing. That’s the point.”
He looked at me, really looked.
“When was the last time someone truly listened to you?”
I opened my mouth… then closed it.
I couldn’t remember.
That night, when I got home, something felt different.
My husband was sitting on the couch, staring at his phone like always. The TV was on, but no one was watching.
Usually, I would’ve just gone to the kitchen, started dinner, kept the routine going.
But instead, I stood there.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised.
And for the first time
