After he died, I noticed something I did not want to admit.

Part of me felt relieved.

Then I hated myself for it.

How could I feel lighter when he was gone?

But the months before his death had been full of watching.

Was he eating? Was he breathing normally? Was tonight the night something would happen? Did he need another medication? Was he in pain?

I had been living with my shoulders raised for so long that I barely noticed.

When his suffering ended, the vigilance ended too.

That relief was not happiness that he was gone.

It was the body putting down a responsibility it had been carrying day and night.

I can miss him and miss caring for him.

I can also admit that caring for him was exhausting.

Both can be true.

Love is not proven by how completely we destroy ourselves after someone dies.

I would still choose more healthy time with him if I could.

What I do not wish for is more fear, more pain, or more nights asking him to stay only because I was not ready.

Relief did not replace my grief.

It arrived beside it.