My grandfather called my grandmother “darling.”
Even after the dementia diagnosis. Even after my grandmother stopped recognizing their house, even after he came out of the grocery store to find her gone from the car again, and had to search the parking lot to find her trying to get into a stranger’s sedan.
“I told you to wait for me, darling,” he’d say, voice tight with something between patience and desperation. “Just five minutes. That’s all I needed.”
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