08/06/2025
After my husband got in a crash, at first, I took care of him, rushing home during lunch breaks, sleeping lightly in case he needed something at night. But Craig hated feeling dependent on me. He begged me to hire someone to help during the day, insisting he couldn't stand being alone. Then, with a hopeful look, he suggested his mother take on the role: "Please, let Mom take care of me during the day. I need family, not strangers."
I hesitated. His mom, Sharon, and I never got along. Still, I agreed—until she gave me her "rate" for caregiving: twice the cost of a professional nurse. I'm not rich, and she wasn't qualified. So I did what I thought was best: I hired a licensed, experienced caregiver named Emily. She was 27, sweet, and dedicated. She spent weekdays from morning to evening with Craig, handling his medications, therapy exercises, and meals.
For weeks, things were… fine. I'd come home around 7:30 PM, Craig was resting, and Emily would give me updates before leaving. Until one Thursday, when Emily stopped at the door and said, "CAN WE TALK? I CAN'T STAY QUIET ANYMORE… IT'S ABOUT CRAIG."
She looked nervous, almost guilty, like she was about to betray someone. I told her to go on. Emily sighed. ⬇️
