Me trapped in some endless version of the decision he’d warned me I’d regret.
Dad walked in.
Three steps later, he stopped.
Our living room was a disaster, just not the kind he’d expected.
A collapsible hospital bed occupied half the rug. A wheelchair stood beside the couch, with two walkers, a shower chair, blood pressure cuffs, gait belts, and laminated instruction sheets crowded around it.
Three steps later, he stopped.
Dad drew in a long breath.
Then Elliot walked in from the kitchen carrying two mugs of coffee.
Dad stared at him.
Elliot stopped.
Continue on the next page:
