At My Son’s Queens Kitchen, He Told Me To Pack A Bag If I Refused Assisted Living. “Then Leave My House,” He Said. I Smiled, Closed My Old Suitcase, And Walked To The Door—Just As A Black Limousine Pulled Up Outside.
“Your room is upstairs,” Henry said, lifting my suitcase before I could protest. “Private bath. Closet. Balcony. Take whatever time you need. Make yourself at home.”
At home.
The phrase hit me so strangely that I could not answer right away.
My room was larger than the entire space I had occupied at David’s.
