Most evenings, I ate dinner in front of the television and fell asleep before the news ended.
My friends called me dependable.
My younger sister called me boring.
My mother called me too picky.
“You’re not getting any younger, Daniel,” she reminded me every time we spoke.
“Neither are you, Mom,” I once replied.
She hung up on me.
I called back five minutes later with an apology and a promise to attend Sunday dinner.
That was the sort of man I was. I could make a joke, but I rarely had the courage to change my life.
Then, about a year before Eleanor’s death, I began volunteering at a palliative care center near my home.
I wasn’t a medical professional. I couldn’t administer medication or explain complicated diagnoses. All I could do was sit with patients, read to them, help them write letters, and listen when they needed someone who wasn’t rushing toward the next appointment.
