“This is better for everyone, Dad,” Daniel said without looking up as he folded my flannel shirts. “The assisted living place has nurses, activities, people your age.”
People my age. The phrase landed heavier than he realized.
I sat in my recliner watching strangers—hired organizers—wrap forty years of memories in newspaper. My late wife Margaret’s baking dishes disappeared into a donation box. My fishing rods followed. Even the clock that chimed every hour since 1989 vanished without discussion.
“I’m not dying,” I muttered.
Daniel sighed. “Nobody said you were.”
But the house felt like a funeral anyway.
Near the back closet, one of the organizers pulled out an old army jacket, olive green and worn thin at the elbows. The sight of it tightened something deep in my chest. I hadn’t worn it in years, but I never allowed myself to throw it away.
