I stood in the doorway of the room I’d slept in for twelve years, gripping a floral suitcase like it was the last thing that still belonged to me.
The suitcase smelled like lavender sachets and old memories.
My hands trembled — not because I’m seventy-five, and not because of last winter’s health scare.
They trembled because of what had just been said to my face.
“We’re going to put you in a nursing home. You’re too old to be useful.”
It wasn’t shouted.
That was the worst part.
It was said casually, like a scheduling update.
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