She stared at me. “Margaret, he’s your son.” I nodded. “Yes. And you’re a human being who deserves safety. Those two facts do not cancel each other out.”
By sunrise, we had packed essential belongings under the advocate’s guidance. Clara took her identification, medication, important papers, and a small photograph of her parents from the bedside table.
I took my wedding ring, my medical records, and an old photograph of Julian as a child. Looking at that picture, I wondered how much I had failed to recognize.
We left the house together.
The retirement community could accommodate me, but not Clara as a permanent resident. The advocate helped arrange temporary safe housing nearby while we explored longer-term options.
For the first time in years, Clara slept without fearing footsteps in the hallway. She called me the next morning, surprised that she had managed nearly eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
