Shutting the front door quietly, he listened for any sign that she knew that he was finally home. There was no stirring, no voice from the upstairs bedroom beckoning him to come to her. She was asleep. He knew that. He wanted to be quiet for her. Shaking the snow from his jacket and boots, he made his way in to the darkened kitchen. His early evening drink could wait, he thought to himself, as he turned away and climbed the stairs to their third floor bedroom.

He paused outside the bedroom door, his head cocked slightly so that could hear better. Nothing. The door whispered as he drew it open. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom. He could see her bundled under the quilt, her hair matted to her forehead. He could hear the reassuring pattern of her breathing. Several prescription bottles stood guard and watched over her as she slept. He shut the door without a sound and made his way to the living room window.