My wife's Japanese grandfather lived with us for three years before he passed away. He didn't speak any English, but I didn't think his quiet presence would be too much for my wife, who stayed home caring for our three young children. At home, he was just another mouth to feed, so I agreed to having him live out his last years with us. He had been a brilliant man, a well-known physicist. In his 80s, he was kind and gentle. When he moved in, he chose certain daily chores for himself. He opened the curtains every morning and closed them every evening, kept the entryway clean, straightened the shoes, and swept the crumbs from under the dining table after every meal. Most of all, he insisted on greeting me at the top of the stairs. Every day after work, he would take my arm and lead me to the dining table, where he had set out tea for us to drink. He would talk about his day in Japanese, and although I had no clue what he was saying, I would then unburden myself with the cares of the day. We would finish our tea, and I always felt refreshed and ready to spend time with my family. At first, I thought I was just humoring him, but over time, I realized he was helping me unwind, making it easier to connect with my family. Then, one morning, he collapsed, his hand on his chest, breathing heavily. My wife asked if she should call an ambulance, but he shouted, "No!" He understood perfectly. We looked at each other, and he nodded. I knew he was ready to go.

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