The night my husband Daniel was admitted to the hospital after a car accident, my world shrank to the acrid smell of disinfectant and the incessant beeping of machines. He was driving home from work when another driver ran a red light. The doctors said he was lucky to have survived, though his recovery would take weeks. I practically lived in the hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable chair next to his bed and surviving on vending machine coffee and constant anxiety.
That's when I noticed the elderly lady in the next bed.
Her name was Margaret. She looked nearly seventy—frail, with silver hair always neatly braided. Unlike us, she never received visitors. No husband, no children, no bouquets on her bedside table. The meals brought by the nurses often remained untouched. She stared at the tray, as if eating alone hurt her more than being hungry.
On the second day, I asked her if she wanted some soup. Surprised, she smiled and nodded. From then on, I made sure she ate three times a day: extra snacks in the cafeteria or homemade meals when I went home to shower. We spoke in hushed tones while Daniel rested. Margaret never complained about her condition. On the contrary, she was interested in me: my life, my part-time bookkeeping job, my marriage, and listened with unusual warmth.
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