When real cognitive changes arrived years later, I was not fearless.
But I was prepared.
I understood that aging did not erase my authority overnight.
Needing help did not mean surrendering every decision.
And one terrible period did not mean I had to spend the rest of my life hiding behind locks.
One of the last clear afternoons I remember, Tommy sat beside my window holding two cups of coffee.
Mine had cream.
He remembered.
“Want the music box?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He wound the key.
The little melody filled the room.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I remembered my mother brushing my hair.
James laughing in the kitchen.
Tommy sitting on the porch with his childhood backpack between his knees.
All the versions of our family that existed before money, fear and desperation complicated everything.
When the music stopped, I opened my eyes.
Tommy looked afraid.
Not afraid of me.
