Rollers and nightcap carefully in place Betsy laid her head softly onto the pillow. Up over the flannel nightie came the smooth sheet and heavy blanket. The glow from the bedside lamp cast the room in a comfortingly warm yellow. She tried to smile at the pleasantness of the situation.

Instead her eyes found their way to the empty side of the bed, still made up, including the extra pillows with their brightly colored shams. Resolute she pulled her eyes back to consider the blankness of the ceiling.

“I am here. I am alive. That’s okay,” she whispered to herself, not that anyone would have heard.

She said it again.

Again she formed the words and hoped to believe them.

The mantra fought tears five years in the making. Fatigue battled ruminations for hold of the conscious mind. Stoic realism parried the persistent thrusts of maternal guilt. All the while self efficacy withstood the taunts and jibes of hindsight.

The war raged until the old woman slept, miles away from her husband down the hall.