For ten years, I shared a home with Mr. Whitaker.
I wasn’t a relative, and I wasn’t treated like one. My role was that of his caregiver—the person who organized his medications, helped with his daily routine, stayed through difficult nights, and learned the small details that made his days easier.
His children visited from time to time.
They were courteous, but our relationship remained distant. To them, I was simply the person employed to look after their father.
I understood that.
What they didn’t see was how much can change when two people share the same home for a decade.
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