Inside, I moved through the aisles under harsh fluorescent light and gathered everything she’d asked for — chicken soup, crackers, lemon drops, bottled water, gauze pads, a heating pad.

I almost bought flowers. Then I stopped. Flowers were too easy. Flowers were what guilty men bought when they wanted grief to look beautiful. Sophie didn’t need beauty arranged in a vase.

She needed someone to remember her medication schedule. Someone to make sure she ate. Someone to stay awake if her fever rose.

At the register an older cashier looked at the items and asked, “Taking care of somebody?”

I looked through the glass doors at Sophie waiting in the car. “Trying to,” I said. And for the first time in months, I meant it without excuse.

Her building was an old brick walk-up with browned ivy clinging to the walls, the lobby faintly smelling of detergent, dust, and someone’s dinner. Sophie insisted she could manage the stairs.