“Okay. You take care of her, and I’ll make calls to get more information.” Aiden is looking at Katya, and his expression is grim. “Once you’re ready, I’ll drive you there.”
I nod and help Katya stand. She looks at me, dazed.
I call out to Aiden as he’s leaving, “Anya is at?—”
“Maple Glen Assisted Living Facility,” Aiden finishes. “I know, baby. Now go get ready.”
He doesn’t ask what we need. He just takes care of everything.
While Katya and I are trying to form full thoughts, Aiden has already called the facility, spoken to the nurse manager, and arranged for a hospice liaison to meet us.
Without asking us questions, without interfering with our silence, he helps pack bags—a change of clothes, snacks, water, phone chargers, and Anya’s paperwork.
Katya and I sit in the back of Aiden’s car, holding each other. He drives quietly. No music, no nothing.
Maple Glen is bright and well-kept, as always, but there’s a weight to the halls now, a deep stillness—or maybe it’s just us who feel it.
Anya has been moved to a quieter wing, closer to the nurses’ station, where they provide hospice care.
Aiden holds the door open for us, his hand steady on the small of my back. That’s when I realize I’m shaking.
Inside, Anya lies in a hospital bed, slightly elevated, oxygen cannula in her nose, her hands folded on a soft blanket patterned with yellow roses.
The nurse greets us gently. “She’s comfortable. Her breathing is shallow, but her vitals are stable for now.”
Katya collapses into the chair beside the bed, her hand grasping her mother’s. “Hi, Mama. It’s me.”
Anya stirs, eyes fluttering, and she manages a whisper: “Katyenka…Mia.”
I sit on the other side of the bed, tears spilling before I can catch them. “We’re here.”
And for a moment—just a breath—she’s lucid. Her eyes, cloudy but still warm, meet ours. She smiles.
And then…she’s gone again.
Her eyes drift closed, her breathing raspier now. Butwe keep talking to her anyway. Telling her stories. Singing softly. Holding her hand.
Aiden handles everything.
He speaks to the nurse when Katya can’t form sentences.
When a form needs signing, he takes care of it.
When we forget to eat, he brings soup and snacks.
He makes sure we stay hydrated.
He makes calls to the hospice care coordinator.
He calls Cristiano, who’s out of town in Dallas, and Cristiano promises to be back on the next flight.
He calls the funeral home so they are on standby.
When Katya breaks down in the hallway, he sits on the floor with her, holding her.
Katya and I take turns going to the bathroom and walking the hallways.
Aiden is always there, a hand on the back, a hug, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water.
