She once did everything with her hands. Braided hair before school, made pies without a recipe, and held her grandkids against her chest as if their warmth could ward off time itself. Her hands told stories, worked tirelessly, comforted those around her, and created countless memories.

Then came that morning when she couldn’t turn the doorknob. Just a twist…a small, simple motion…and it felt like her fingers had turned to rust. The doctor diagnosed her with Rheumatoid Arthritis, an autoimmune betrayal where her own body mistook its joints for an enemy. They showed her diagrams and inflammation charts, discussed flares and long-term damage. She nodded, trying to understand, but the only word that truly resonated was forever.

At first, the pain wasn’t constant. It came and went like a storm that offered no warning. One day, she could chop vegetables; the next, she struggled to hold a fork. She masked it well, smiling through the discomfort. When she dropped things, she would laugh and say, “I’m just getting old,” as if age could somehow explain such a profound betrayal.

But I noticed. I saw the way she gazed at her own hands as if they belonged to someone else. I noticed the hesitation before every movement, as she calculated the cost of even the smallest attempt. Flares stole her sleep, leaving her with swollen knuckles, wrists that locked, and joints so inflamed they felt like fire beneath her skin.

Despite it all, she pressed on. She tried every medication, endured injections that bruised her pride as much as her skin, and learned to open jars with her elbows. She held her grief in silence, unwilling to make others uncomfortable. Where she had once been a caregiver, she now needed one, and that was the heartbreak she never wished to acknowledge.