It’s been a year now.
As I put the key in the door, I remember the day I realized I had to move in.
My father had always been demanding. I was reluctant to take on the responsibility.
Sure, I could have added him to the long list of seniors waiting for a room at the senior assisted living. But, after all, he was my dad.
On that summer morning, my father tried to open the neighbors’ door, helping me make my decision.
His memory was fading. Confused and exasperated, he called. I knew he was desperate. He would never admit his decline.
After he died, an older gentleman approached me at the wake.
He said, “You’re a good son.”
Sadly, Alzheimer’s had prevented my father from telling me.
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