My daughter convinced me to go on vacation to the seaside: “All inclusive, Mom, you won’t have to do a thing.” I paid for the tickets myself. Upon arrival, I discovered I’d be staying with my grandchildren, while she and my son-in-law would be in a different building.

James had been dead for four years. Sometimes I felt I still hadn’t adjusted to the silence in the apartment. Earlier in the morning, he’d turn on the radio, complain about the news, and ask where I’d left his glasses. Now I could sit at the kitchen table for hours without saying a word.

 

 

I had retired three years earlier, after thirty years working in the dairy. I had been a shift supervisor for twelve years. I knew how to organize forty people on a night shift, fix a pasteurizer malfunction, and find a solution when everything seemed to be heading towards disaster.

 

But I never learned to say no to my daughter when she looked at me with a smile and said: