Three years ago, when my oldest son was almost three and my youngest was just six-months old, we sat at my grandpa’s deathbed. My parents were there, too, and my brother, my husband, and my grandma. We held his hand, rubbed his forehead, talked to him in that way you do when deep down, you want to believe what you’re saying can be heard.

He was 89 years old, and hanging on. But he would not recover.

So my brother and I leaned in close. And now I can’t remember who said it, but one of us promised him, “We’ll take care of grandma. It’ll be ok.”

And he died.

I remember wondering if he had needed to hear that. He had contracted polio when he was four years old, and had a bum leg since then, so my grandma had spent much of their 59 married years caring for…