My Son Sent Me to a Nursing Home Until He Realized I Was Never Coming Back

home more now, and the downstairs space just isn’t functioning as an office.”

My room.

Not a spare bedroom. Not an unused space. My room, at the end of the hall, with Frank’s photograph and my grandmother’s quilt and my books and the peppermints in the ceramic bowl and everything that was left of a seventy two year life that had been mostly spent on continue reading …