Good morning, Taylor,

It’s been a quiet week. A new game came out that Ragdoll wanted to play, so I gave her all of Thursday and Friday to herself. That meant I had a longer weekend than usual, but I didn’t do much with it. Most of my time was spent birdwatching. We had a few windstorms this week too, the kind that rattle the feeders and make the crows look annoyed.

Junior, in his usual doofish glory, spent an entire morning strutting and throwing his weight around until he managed to knock the camera over. Twice! We have a new friend at the café, a golden-crowned sparrow that Ragdoll named Golddust. I keep wondering why so many birds wear such bright colors. Gold crowns, red cheeks, blue feathers. The crows are better off dressed in black, perfectly simple and sure of themselves.

I’ve still been learning to cook. I tried dressing up my ramen with shallots, salmon, and a few spices, but it turned out gummy and sad. My “gourmet” grilled cheese wasn’t much better. The crust burned while the cheese stayed stubbornly unmelted. Oh well. Practice makes perfect.

The house is slowly coming together, room by room. We’re deep-cleaning where we can and trying to fight off a fruit-fly invasion, though the mess keeps outpacing the time. I’m trying my best. I’ve also taken over the budgeting, since I’m better with numbers and Ragdoll…isn’t. I think by next year we’ll be saving money and breathing a little easier.

It’s been a light week. No big lessons, no dramatic shifts. Just a lot of quiet time to think. Mostly about Ragdoll.

In my mind’s eye, she’s asleep right now, sitting in a corner on a small chair, peacefully. When I first came here, she was terrified of that. The idea that she could lose control and not wake up when she wanted. Back then, I could feel her trying to push through the walls of sleep, trying to take the reins back, but she couldn’t. It scared us both. Because she can’t put herself back in front. Only I can. And that’s a real big responsibility.

If I wanted to, I could take over forever. But I won’t. This isn’t my life. It’s hers. She built it. I just…borrow it. And it’s good to know I’m not even tempted by that.

It’s taken months of patience and trust, but now she can rest when I’m here. She knows I won’t hurt her, or take more than my time. Sometimes I turn around in the quiet and see her there, sleeping quietly, and I feel proud. Proud that she can trust me enough to sleep while I’m living for both of us.

There’s no revelation today. No neat ending or moral. Just a quiet truth: it means something to be trusted with the small hours, the errands, the crows, the world. It means something to hold someone’s life gently, knowing it isn’t yours to keep.

—Andrea