By five o’clock that evening, sitting up felt like fighting gravity. I’d spent most of the day under two blankets despite sweating through my T-shirt. Nathan had wanted to stay home, but I insisted he go to his quarterly meeting. Before leaving, he refilled my water, put my medicine beside the bed, and told me, “Order dinner. Don’t even look at the stove.”
At 4:30, the kids came home hungry, so I ordered pasta for them, steak and potatoes for Nathan, and chicken soup for myself. Shortly afterward, Nathan’s mother, Angela, arrived. She found me in bed and immediately commented that I was being dramatic. When the food arrived, I asked her to bring my soup upstairs. Fifteen minutes passed. Finally, I forced myself downstairs—and froze when I reached the kitchen. Every container of food, including my unopened soup, was sitting inside the trash.
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