We shared a companionable half-hour in the kitchen all on our own, not really saying very much but taking great comfort from each other’s presence. Then Tim rose, too, and soon we were on our way to the hospital to check on Dad. Tim was a veritable tower of strength, taking care of all the little trivial things that needed doing but that neither Mum nor I would even have thought of. When we got home that night, the fridge was fully stocked, the house was clean and warm, the mail had been arranged into little piles—junk, Mum, Dad, other—and there was a general sense of calm. And yet…and yet horrible little me felt like this was all wrong. I would have preferred someone else to do all these things. Tim was being fabulous, but I couldn’t get myself to feel close to him. I felt grateful, but I also found his presence profoundly irritating. As the next two days went by, my feeling of disenfranchisement toward Tim grew to enormous proportions and became almost impossible to ignore.
