Aging alone was not just about loneliness.
It was about fear.
Margaret feared falling in the bathroom with no one to hear her. She feared forgetting the stove on. She feared the slow erosion of her mind—the way names slipped away, the way days blurred together.
One evening, she stood in the hallway, staring at a photograph on the wall. It was a picture of her and her husband, taken decades ago. They were smiling, young, full of a future that had already passed.
For a moment, she couldn’t remember his name.
The realization hit her like a cold wave.
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