I had stopped expecting to be seen.

I had lowered my own estimation of myself to match the estimation everyone around me held, until I genuinely believed that the invisible woman doing the invisible work was all I was and all I would ever be.

And then a dying old woman, with her hand shaking too badly to write neatly, took the last of her strength and used it to tell me that she had seen me.

Every meal.

Every night.

Every sacrifice.