The Last Cup Before It Cools

She always started with the kettle.

Even on mornings when her hands shook with tiredness. Even on mornings when he was still asleep and the house was quiet in that fragile way that felt like it might break if she breathed too loudly, when she could feel the exhaustion settled deep in her bones.

Water first.

Mug second.

Then the coffee.

Strong. Always strong. With creamer. No sugar. Never sugar.

Even now, when swallowing was harder. Even now, when drinking anything came with a pause, a calculation, and a prayer.

“Good coffee makes a bad day less bad,” he used to say.

She didn’t know when that stopped being a joke and started being a rule.

The kettle hummed while she set out his cup, the lid, the straw, the napkins, and the coffee stirrers. The stirrers stayed in a small cup by his place at the table now. Not for stirring.

For breathing.

She hated that they were there.

She needed them there.

She poured in just the right amount of creamer before the coffee, the way he liked it. He said it blended better that way. She’d learned his rules over years. Some habits stayed even when so much else didn’t.

The kitchen smelled faintly of toast and the cleaner she’d used the night before. A normal smell. A safe smell. The kind of smell that made it feel like a regular house, even when nothing about their mornings felt regular anymore.

She listened for the familiar sounds.

Not footsteps.

The low electric hum of his scooter.

A soft bump against the hallway wall.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

Another bump. The doorframe this time.

Ataxia didn’t just take his legs. It took his sense of where his body ended and the world began. His brain sent messages his muscles couldn’t quite follow. Balance. Coordination. Timing. All scrambled.

“You okay?” she called.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just driving like a drunk teenager.”

She smiled even though her chest tightened. Humor was how he survived the loss of things. Walking. Standing. Trusting his own body.

He came into the kitchen slowly, steering with careful, jerky corrections. His right side drifted more these days. His right eye barely saw what was there anymore, and he compensated without meaning to, veering too close to walls and counters.

He clipped the doorway again. His jaw tightened, anger flashing through his face before he could hide it.

“You’re crooked again,” she said gently.

“Story of my life,” he replied, nudging the joystick.

She moved the chair and helped line him up with the table. He hated when she had to help. But he hated crashing into furniture more.

The kettle clicked off.

She poured slowly. Watched the dark swirl bloom and settle. Steam curled upward, fogging her glasses for a second. She wiped them with the hem of her shirt.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” she said.

“With creamer,” he reminded her.

“Always.”

She set the mug in front of him and waited.

He wrapped both hands around it, not for warmth but for steadiness. His fingers didn’t always listen to him anymore. Sometimes they trembled. Sometimes they froze. Sometimes they squeezed too hard, like they forgot how much pressure was enough.

“I used to drive that black SUV everywhere,” he said suddenly, staring at his hands. “Remember that thing?”

“I remember,” she said.

“I brought it with me from California,” he said. “Had it transported all the way to Georgia.” His brow furrowed. “Me and three of my kids flew out.”

She smiled softly. “You told me about that.”

“One of the boys got sick on the plane,” he said. “Motion sickness. Poor kid turned green halfway through.” A small, real smile crossed his face. “I held the bag for him and told him he was tougher than he thought. Walked through that airport carrying backpacks like nothing was wrong.”

She squeezed his hand.

“That SUV felt like part of my old life made the trip with me,” he said. “Back when I could still climb in and out without thinking about it.”

“I loved that SUV,” he added quietly. “It felt solid. Safe.” He shook his head. “Had to trade it in for that little blue Ford. Couldn’t get into the SUV anymore. Son took the Ford over. At least someone’s using it.”

He lifted his hands, studying them.

“I climbed ladders. Did woodworking. Built shelves. Fixed cabinets. I made things with my hands,” he said. “Now I can barely hold a damn cup without spilling it.”

She reached out and steadied the mug while he guided it to his mouth.

“You still built a lot of good things,” she said. “People. Memories. A whole family.”

He smiled faintly. “Five kids. Two marriages. I was busy before you came along.”

She smiled back. “You were.”

“Our kids don’t live here,” he said quietly, like he was sorting it out in his head. “Just you and me.”

“That’s right.”

“My oldest just had her second baby,” he added. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did,” she said. “Twice. But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

He smiled a little bigger at that. “Guess I’m a pretty good grandpa, even if I can’t hold them like I want to.”

“They still know you love them,” she said.

He took a careful sip through the straw.

They both paused.

They always paused.

He swallowed.

Once.

Twice.

Then he coughed.

Hard.

The kind that made her heart slam against her ribs.

She was already moving. Napkins. Stirrers.

“I’m okay,” he said between coughs.

He sucked on one of the coffee stirrers, the thin plastic tube giving him just enough airway to pull in small, panicked breaths.

She counted quietly.

One.

Two.

Three.

He gagged. A small amount of liquid came back up. She wiped his mouth gently, like he was made of glass.

“Sorry,” he said, hoarse and embarrassed.

“Don’t,” she said. “Never apologize for breathing.”

He nodded, eyes watery.

After a minute, his breathing evened out.

“You need the nebulizer?” she asked.

“Probably,” he admitted.

She set up the machine without comment. The mask. The tubing. The quiet mechanical hiss. He leaned back while the medicine opened his lungs, his chest rising and falling more easily after a few minutes.

Ataxia didn’t just steal movement. It tangled even the simplest acts, like swallowing and breathing.

Turned simple acts into risks. Drinking water could send it into his lungs. Even soda and Gatorade made him choke. Sometimes food came back up without warning. Sometimes his lungs protested so hard he felt like he was drowning on dry land.

The machine clicked off.

He looked tired.

“You know this is genetic,” he said quietly. “My mom. My uncle. My cousin. All of us.” He swallowed. “My kids might have it too. They just won’t know for years.”

She took his hand.

“I know.”

“I hate that,” he said. “I hate that I passed something like this on. I hate that my body is betraying me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“I still see you,” she said.

He looked up.

Really looked at her.

Not through her.

Not past her.

At her.

“I know you,” he said slowly.

Her heart stuttered.

“I’d hope so,” she said softly.

“You’re…” He frowned, searching through fog. “You’re the one who takes care of me.”

“That’s true.”

“No,” he said. “You’re more than that.”

Her fingers tightened around the table edge.

“Tell me,” she said gently.

“You’re my wife.”

The word landed like something holy.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His eyes filled. Not with despair. With wonder. With the shock of remembering something important.

“I forget,” he said. “It’s like my head drops pieces of things. Big pieces.”

“I know.”

“I hate that too.”

For a few minutes, his mind cleared.

He was quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee like the surface might show him something.

Then his face changed.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“You had two dresses,” he said suddenly.

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“Our wedding,” he said. “You had two.”

Her breath caught.

Yes, she whispered. “I did.”

The blue one first, he said, more certain now. That beautiful blue one. You walked toward me in it. Outside. The light was everywhere. You looked like you belonged in another world.

Her eyes filled.

It was a renaissance wedding, she said softly. Do you remember?

He nodded. You came toward me in that blue dress. It moved when you walked. The trees were behind you. Sun everywhere. I remember thinking—this is real. This is my life now.

You cried, she said gently.

I did, he said, a soft, embarrassed smile. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I held you so tight. Like if I let go, the moment would disappear.

Her throat tightened.

And the second dress? she asked.

He closed his eyes for a second, searching.

Purple, he said. Then corrected himself. No. Pink. Deep pink. Almost purple in the light. For the reception.

Yes, she said. You were right the first time. It looked different depending on the sun.

You came back out in it, he said, his voice stronger now. Everyone clapped. You smiled like you couldn’t believe you were really my wife.

She nodded, tears slipping free now.

You danced with me, he said. I held you and we turned slow. I remember the fabric. Heavy. Warm. I remember the way your hair had flowers in it.

You told me I was beautiful, she said.

You were, he said immediately. You are.

He lifted his hands slightly, like he could still feel the shape of her in his arms.

I could hold you then, he said quietly. I held you and I didn’t think about falling. Didn’t think about balance. Didn’t think about my legs. I just… held you.

Her hand trembled where it rested on the table.

You held me tight, she whispered.

I still want to, he said. I just can’t the same way.

For a moment, he wasn’t sick.

For a moment, he wasn’t losing anything.

He was the man standing in the yard, sunlight on his shoulders, holding his bride in a pink dress, swaying like time didn’t exist.

She let herself stay in that moment with him.

Because moments like that didn’t last long anymore.

Then his gaze drifted.

What was I saying? he asked.

You were telling me about our wedding, she said gently.

Oh, he said, like the memory slipped just out of reach again.

He took another sip.

The coffee had cooled.

She stood and warmed it in the microwave. Not because he asked.

Because she always did.

Because it was something she could still fix.

While it hummed, she leaned against the counter, letting the house steady around her, and closed her eyes.

Not to cry.

Just to breathe.

When she turned back, he was watching her.

You’re very kind, he said.

She handed him the mug.

You’re my husband, she said. That’s not kindness. That’s love.

He nodded slowly.

Love, he repeated, like he was testing the word in his mouth.

They sat together while he drank.

Outside, the morning light moved across the floor. Dust motes drifted. The house held their quiet.

Later, he would forget again.

Later, he would choke again.

Later, his legs would cramp, his feet would stay cold, his vision would blur more, his speech would slip further away from clarity.

Later, Ataxia would take something else from him.

But right now, he knew her.

Right now, she was his wife.

Right now, she was the woman who made good coffee with creamer and held his hand and stayed.

He finished the last sip.

It’s cold, he said.

She smiled.

I’ll make you another.

She stood, reached for the kettle again, and began to fill it.

Because some love looks like grand gestures.

And some love looks like learning the sound of a nebulizer.

And some love looks like remembering how he takes his coffee.

And some love looks like never letting the coffee get cold.