I WALKED INTO MY MOTHER-IN-law’s house, as always, without knocking. My father-in-law, Larry, had died months earlier, but part of me still expected to find him in his recliner in the living room, watching The Waltons on TV. “Hello,” I called out.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Judy said, coming down the hallway from her bedroom. Not her real bedroom. Just the spare room she’d been sleeping in since Larry’s passing.
Larry and Judy had been married for 51 years. They’d had nine children; seven were still living. My husband, Eric, and I lived about a quarter mile away, so it was easy to pop in. But the past two years, ever since Larry had had several strokes, either Eric or I had been with Judy nearly constantly, helping…
