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That’s how Alyssa, a seemingly ordinary young woman of twenty-six, walked into our lives, carrying a secret that would eventually unravel the very fabric of our family. She arrived as a beacon of calm competence, refreshingly respectful in a way many younger people aren’t. She never condescended to my mother, speaking to her with an adult dignity that acknowledged Margaret’s continuing relevance, an important distinction my mother deeply appreciated. Within mere weeks, the quiet despair of Mom’s usual routine of sad toast and cheese was replaced by the aroma of nourishing, real meals. Her physical therapy exercises, once conveniently forgotten, were now non-negotiable, lovingly yet firmly encouraged. It felt like a small miracle, a gentle hand guiding us back to a semblance of normalcy. Every Sunday afternoon, a new ritual began to form: Alyssa would take my mother on a slow, deliberate walk around the neighborhood. They would chat, they would laugh, their voices drifting back to the house, a comforting symphony of companionship. This weekly excursion became their sacred time, a cherished bond blossoming between two women of vastly different generations. Then, after a few months, a subtle yet unmistakable shift occurred. The easy laughter from the Sunday walks began to diminish. Mom started returning home tight-lipped, her eyes sometimes betraying a hint of red, as if she’d been silently shedding tears. When I asked about the walk, a strange, almost robotic response became her go-to: “It was nice, honey.” My mother, a woman who prized originality and precision in language, never repeated herself without profound reason. This repetitive phrase, this forced pleasantry, was a discordant note in the otherwise harmonious tune of Alyssa’s care, a quiet alarm bell ringing in the back of my mind, signaling that something far deeper and more unsettling was unfolding behind the veneer of their Sunday strolls. What could possibly be happening on those innocent walks?
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