It was just a severe sprain, thankfully. But the reality check was brutal.
When they discharged her from the emergency room the next morning, the hospital social worker handed us a thick stack of glossy pamphlets for assisted living facilities.
Betty looked at them like they were death sentences.
I took the brochures from her trembling hands and dropped them straight into the lobby trash can.
“Pack a bag,” I told her.
“What? Where am I going?” she asked, clutching her purse.
“To my guest room. We are done living in two empty houses pretending we are invincible.”
Betty tried to argue. She brought up her independence, her pride, her routines, and not wanting to intrude on my space.
I didn’t listen.
That was six months ago.
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