Not just fear.
Shame.
I looked at her.
At the fine lines around her mouth.
At the way she held her shoulders like she’d been carrying something heavy for years.
“You think I’m doing this to you?” I asked softly.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
I pointed at Sarah’s mug on the table.
“Do you know why I make it?” I asked. “Every morning.”
Jessica’s gaze flicked to the mug and darted away.
“Because he’s stuck,” she said, more to Mark than to me. “He’s stuck in it. He’s not moving forward.”
Mark tried again, gentle.
“Jim… maybe we can talk about getting some support. A companion. A routine. There are places—”
“Places,” I repeated.
Jessica’s eyes flashed.
“Yes, places,” she snapped. “Safe places. With staff. With people who check in. With activities. With—”
“With locked doors,” I said.
Her face hardened.
“You don’t know that.”
I stood up slowly.
My knees complained, but I ignored them.
“I watched your mother carry that leash for six years,” I said. “Do you know what people said about her?”
Jessica swallowed.
“She didn’t care,” I continued. “She loved him. She loved us. And she didn’t let strangers tell her what love was supposed to look like.”
Jessica’s voice broke.
“Dad, you’re eighty-two.”
I nodded.
“I know,” I said. “My bones remind me daily.”
“And you’re alone,” she said, as if the word itself was an accusation.
I looked around the kitchen.
At the empty chair.
At the mug.
At the leash.
“I’m not as alone as you think,” I said.
Jessica slammed her phone down on the counter.
“That’s the problem!” she cried. “You think she’s here. You think the dog is here. You talk to them like they’re—”
“They are,” I cut in.
