In early 1992, as snow blanketed the suburbs of Grand Rapids, Michigan, Elizabeth Montgomery quietly arrived at the modest home of Dick York. The neighbors didn’t notice. No press followed. She had traveled in silence, determined to see the man with whom she had once shared one of television’s most cherished bonds on “Bewitched.” Years had passed since they last spoke, but hearing about York’s declining health stirred something deep within her.
Inside the small bedroom where York lay weak and frail, Montgomery sat beside him without ceremony. His thin hand rested in hers, and for several minutes, they said nothing. The room smelled faintly of peppermint oil and old books. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of shared memory. She didn’t speak of fame or reruns or regrets. Instead, she gently began recounting their favorite moments from the early days of “Bewitched,” the moments before the back pain, before the producers recast him, before the show became something else.
York, once a vibrant and witty presence, could barely speak above a whisper. But his eyes sparkled when she mentioned the scene in season one where Darrin tried to chop wood using magic, only to set the living room rug on fire. They both laughed then, softly but genuinely. Her visit wasn’t planned for attention, nor did she inform her agent or any friends outside of a trusted mutual contact. It was something she needed to do for herself. A way to honor what they once had.
Montgomery had always carried a deep affection for York, though their on-set chemistry was often overshadowed by his physical struggles and the show’s punishing production schedule. She had watched him suffer, his spinal condition worsening under studio lights and tight shooting deadlines. When he eventually left “Bewitched” in 1969, there had been no proper farewell, no wrap-up dinner, no closure. He was gone from the lot, and within a week, another actor stepped into the role. York later admitted that the sudden exit left him broken in more ways than one.
Years later, long after Montgomery had moved on to other projects and York had faded from Hollywood, she still remembered the man who made her laugh when the cameras weren’t rolling. During her visit, she apologized. Not for anything she did, but for not staying in touch. York simply squeezed her hand and said, “We both had to keep going.” She nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek.
After about an hour, she stood to leave. York, exhausted but moved, gave her a faint smile. She kissed his forehead and whispered, “You’ll always be my Darrin.” Then she walked out, not knowing it would be the last time she saw him. When he passed away later that same year, she kept the visit private. It was only through a conversation with a close friend that her quiet act of compassion eventually came to light.
“She told me he was more than a co-star,” the friend recalled. “She said, ‘He was part of something magical we created together.’” That line, spoken without rehearsal or spotlight, revealed a tenderness that went far beyond any scripted scene.
Elizabeth Montgomery never spoke publicly about that visit. She never sought credit, never gave an interview about it, and never included it in retrospectives. It remained a personal gesture. Sincere, intimate, and deeply human.
She left his house that day with a full heart and silent tears, knowing the real magic of “Bewitched” had always lived offscreen, in moments filled with quiet love and lasting grace.
