And pity hurt more than the shaking ever had.
A few days later, my granddaughter Emma said something that made everything worse.
She was sitting on the carpet drawing a house.
I smiled and asked,
“What are you drawing, sweetheart?”
She looked up innocently.
“The place where you’re going to live, Grandpa.”
My heart stopped.
“What place?”
She kept coloring.
“Mom said they’ll take good care of you there.”
I forced myself to smile.
Then I walked into my bedroom and shut the door.
That was the moment I became certain.
They were moving me somewhere.
A care home.
A facility.
Some place where old people were taken when their families could no longer handle them.
I sat on the edge of my bed for almost an hour.
I imagined strangers dressing me.
Strangers bringing my meals.
Strangers deciding when I should sleep.
I imagined Daniel and Sarah visiting every Sunday at first.
