I switched her pills. Not all of them just enough to take the sharpness out of her - to slow the cow down a bit. She'd been louder than usual that week, full of ideas, full of fire, convinced she could change everything if she pushed hard enough. I told myself I only needed her to settle, to slow down, to stop burning through every room she entered. And she did. For three years I watched her fade by degrees, small pieces slipping away until she was too tired to argue, too tired to question, too tired to be the person she'd been before. She thought it was life grinding her down. I let her believe it. I said nothing. Not when she asked what was wrong with her. Not at the funeral. Not ever.