It was such a simple act that I almost overlooked the meaning: for years, she had not been certain that a closed door would be respected.

We developed a routine.

I drove her to appointments and did the grocery shopping.

She chose what we cooked.

In the evenings she sat at the kitchen table with her sketchbook, sometimes drawing, sometimes staring at a page she could not finish.

We watched old comedies when she felt up to it and sat in silence when she did not.

A week after returning home, she asked for her old bicycle.