Page 170 of Matteo

I look over at Arthur.

“H-hi, G-grandma,” I say. “Just now. Just an hour ago.”

“You've grown up so much,” she says, then turns to Arthur. “Artie, is it ready yet?”

“It’s ready.”

I have an even bigger ache in my heart.

I go over to help him, but I see the pain in his eyes.

I set the table, as Arthur helps Irene to the table. She can walk, but he's always so scared that she might fall. Today she looks especially fragile.

My heart sinks. Everything around me is falling apart, and I’m hurting over Matteo, over being framed, but somehow watching Arthur and Irene hurts even more. Irene is remembering her granddaughter. Her dementia has carried her elsewhere, and the realization breaks something inside me.

“The bread rolls are nice and warm. Just the way you like them,” Arthur tells Irene, helping her to the dining table.

While he's busy with Irene, I quickly sneak a peek through the fridge and cupboards. He has canned goods, but the fridge is empty. As is the fruit bowl. A wave of guilt engulfs me. There’s no fresh food here. No fruit or vegetables. Nothing with any nutritional value. Dinner consists of a basket of bread rolls and what looks like clear vegetable soup.

I feel so bad that I wasn't here to take care of them, even though I couldn’t help it.

“Lizzie, come on. Let's eat.” He catches me going through his fridge. “I was about to order supplies,” he says, looking guilty. “I've been a bit busy.”

Something inside my chest breaks. I will take care of this.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I can help now that I’m back.”

We go to the table, and everybody eats.

“This is good,” I say. It's canned soup, but it tastes good, and I'm starving.

“Are you staying the night, Tillie?” Irene asks.

The ache in my chest deepens. “Not tonight, Grandma. I'll come and see you tomorrow, okay?”

She doesn't say anything. She just eats silently.

I'm sitting in a thick fog of guilt and hurt, trying to comprehend the weight Arthur carries every day. My heart is broken, but at least Matteo is still out there somewhere. Arthur is grieving someone who's still alive. It must be unimaginably difficult, watching the woman you've loved for decades disappear piece by piece. Yet despite that, Arthur is still here, showing up every single day, loving Irene and taking care of her even as she slips away from him.

My lips tremble as I fight another wave of tears, trying not to break down. I love Arthur and Irene, and suddenly all I can think about is how unfair this is.

It's not just my life. It's theirs.

My eyes well up with tears, and I sniffle, wiping my eyes. The bread sticks in my throat, and I need a gulp of water to wash it down. Arthur notices, and peers at me, his face creasing with concern. I shake my head, not wanting to talk about it.

“I'll help you clear up,” I say later, when we've cleared the table. Irene moves over to the couch again, this time, slowly knitting. I insist on washing the dishes.

“What happened?” Arthur asks.

I don't even know where to start.

I don't even know what to say.

“Don't feel sad for Irene,” he says, when I struggle to answer, because I don't know where to even begin. I feel my lips wobble as I try not to cry.

“Are you okay?” he steps closer, and this time I burst into tears. The floodgates open, and I can't hold it back anymore. I stop washing and take a step back, to compose myself.

“It's not just Irene, is it?” he asks, softly. “Looks to me like you're carrying a lot on your own.”