Tonight, he was restless again — caught in that familiar early evening haze, the one where nothing feels quite right and he just wants to “go home.” It’s a phrase I’ve come to know well. It doesn’t mean a location. It means safety. Belonging. A need for something to make sense.
So we went for a drive. I didn’t have a plan, just the sense that moving forward might calm the unsettled feeling swirling inside him. We ended up at the McDonald’s drive-through, something simple and familiar. I ordered hot apple pies.
As we pulled up to pay, he leaned forward, fidgeting. He started searching his pockets — his brow furrowed, his fingers moving faster, urgent. “I’ve got this,” he seemed to say without words. He’s always been that kind of man. The one who pays. The provider. The protector.
I told him gently, “It’s okay, I’ve got the bank card.” But I could see that didn’t quite land. The concept didn’t connect. His face didn’t settle. He kept patting his pockets. Finally, he took off his glasses — the only thing in there — and handed them to me.
He thought it was money. Or maybe he knew it wasn’t, but in that moment, it was all he had to give. And he gave it. That gesture said everything. It said, “I still want to take care of you.” It said, “Let me offer something.”
We drove home quietly after that, eating our pies. He was tired, and for the first time in hours, content. He got into bed not long after. That small outing — that tiny moment — somehow gave him the sense that he had done his part. That he had provided.
And maybe he did. Because tonight, he gave me more than his glasses. He gave me a glimpse of the man he still is, buried under the confusion and fading memory — the man who still wants to show up for me, in the only way he can.
I’ll hold on to that.
