She didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
We guided him back to a small room at the back of the house.
Inside: a bed, medication, photos taped to the wall.
A quiet, hidden world.
When we stepped out, I looked at her.
“Explain.”
She leaned against the wall, exhausted.
“He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s almost a year ago,” she said. “My brother couldn’t handle it anymore… wanted to put him in a facility where he’d be sedated all the time.”
Her voice broke.
“He begged me not to send him away.”
“So you brought him here?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Three months ago.”
“Three months?” I stared at her. “You hid this from me?”
“I was scared,” she whispered.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
That word hit harder than anything.
“You said you’d never go through this again,” she continued. “After what happened with your grandfather… I thought you’d say no.”
I remembered.
I had said that.
Years ago.
Like a promise.
The anger in me faded… replaced by something heavier.
Guilt.
“Is Emma safe?” I asked quietly.
“Always,” Megan said immediately. “He’s never hurt her. He just gets confused… thinks his wife is still here.”
Everything suddenly made sense.
The strange noises.
The locked door.
The subtle changes.
The next morning, we told Emma the truth.
“The man you see at night is Grandpa,” Megan explained.
Emma nodded seriously.
“That’s why he walks slow,” she said.
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