I Thought I Could Trust Her to Care for My Husband. Then the Fifth Night Proved Me Wrong.

I work long shifts at a clothing factory in the Dallas, Texas, suburbs. My name is Lena, and I am 35 years old.

Tom, my husband, used to be strong, loving, and full of life. He could fix anything and always made our son laugh. But everything changed last year when a tragic accident occurred involving a vehicle. He lived, but half of his body was paralyzed.

Since then, our house has been quiet and full of problems.
I leave every morning before the sun comes up, and by the time I get back, it’s already dark. Then there is a different kind of work to do: feeding Tom, cleaning him, changing his clothes, and giving him his medicine. For months, I put up with it without saying anything, but my body eventually started to cooperate out. Some nights, after I took care of him, I would sit on the floor next to the bed because I was too weak to stand.

One

night, Mrs. Harper, our neighbor, came over. She was a widow in her fifties who lived alone next door.

She replied softly, “Lena, you’re wearing yourself out.” I’ll assist you in taking care of your hubby at night. I used to help nurses. “I’ll only charge $500 a night.”

The offer was generous, and I had known her for years as a calm, gentle woman. So I said yes.

I continued texting to check on Tom during the first several evenings. Is he sleeping?
Every time, she said the same thing: “He’s sleeping well.” Don’t worry.

Tom even stated with a slight smile, “She’s easy to talk to.” The night goes much faster when she tells stories.

I was pleased. I thought it was a good thing that he had someone to talk to while I was gone.

But

on the sixth night, everything changed.

My phone started calling over and over at about eleven. When I finally answered, I heard Mrs. Carter, our other neighbor, in a shaking voice say, “Lena!” Come home right now! I just peered through your window and saw that she was on top of your hubby!

My heart almost stopped.
I dropped everything and ran out of the plant into the pouring rain. It was less than a mile to our house, but it felt like a long run.

The front gate was open, and the light in the bedroom was still on when I got home. I ran inside and stopped.

Tom was lying still on the bed.
Mrs. Harper was next to him, bending over, and they were both under a blanket. She had red cheeks, trembling hands, and tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mrs. Carter was behind her, pale and shaking.

“What’s going on here?” I yelled, my voice breaking from rage and dread.

Mrs. Harper sprang back and cried, “I thought he couldn’t breathe!” I was pushing on his chest to help him!

I ran to Tom’s side. His skin felt sweaty, and his breathing was irregular. His eyes were moist with confusion when he finally looked up at me.
He muttered softly, “Lena… I just wanted to remember… her…”

There was no sound in the room.
Then Mrs. Harper said in a shaky voice, “You look so much like my husband.” He passed away a long time ago… and I still think about him every night. I must have assumed that the person I was looking at was my husband. “I’m so sorry.”

And all of a sudden, I got it.
She wasn’t awful. She wasn’t attempting to hurt anyone.
She was just a shattered woman, drowning in her memories and loneliness.

I shed tears for both her and my husband, each enmeshed in the past in their own unique ways.

When I finally replied, my voice was soft: “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Harper.” But starting tomorrow, I’ll take care of him myself.

She nodded slowly and looked down.
“You’re right,” she said in a low voice. “I need to take care of myself too.”

She grabbed her umbrella and headed out into the storm, where her silhouette disappeared in the downpour.

I sat next to Tom’s bed that night and held his hand until daylight. The rain never stopped. It tapped on the window like a heartbeat.

I haven’t hired another caretaker since that night. I quit my full-time career and got a part-time one so I could be home with him every night.

I heard later that Mrs. Harper had gone back to her village to live with her sister.
When it rains, I still think of her sometimes. She was the woman who made it difficult to distinguish between grief and reality.

That night taught me something I’ll never forget:

“The scariest things aren’t always what we see, but the sadness that makes us forget what’s real.”

I grabbed my husband’s hand tightly and whispered, “No one will ever be alone in this house again.” He was weak but alive.