The nursing home smells of lemon-scented cleaner and medication. It’s oddly comforting and a far cry from the sterile hospital scent that most people expect. I’ve been here long enough for this to feel like home, maybe even more so than any of the foster homes I bounced between growing up.
I was only supposed to be here for a few months to get some volunteer hours under my belt and boost my university application. Straight after school, I wanted to work for a few years to make enough money to get into a university and fend for myself. “I understand that you need to work for a while, Vaughn,” Dorothy, the school guidance counselor, told me.
“But don’t put off university for too long. The longer you wait, the more you’ll just put it off.”
I agreed. I’d heard too many stories of people with big aspirations just letting life pass them by because they didn’t have time anymore.
So, I worked as a personal assistant to a mom-influencer. It was stressful work, but she paid me well, and I could leave work at 3 p.m. every day.
That’s how I ended up at the nursing home after those hours. That was three years ago. Now, I’m 25 and still working here most days of the week.
And the strange part? I don’t regret it. With its creaky floors and echoing hallways, this place has become a refuge.
But last week, something happened that made me question almost everything I knew. It was Tuesday, late afternoon, and I was making my usual rounds. Everyone had eaten their early dinners and retreated to their rooms, ready for some rest before they came together for bingo night.
Room after room, I checked on the residents, adjusting pillows, offering smiles, listening to the same stories I’d heard a hundred times. Then, I passed Mrs. Coleman’s door.
I’d seen her before, a lovely woman. She was quiet and 90 years old, always sitting by the window, staring like she was waiting for something. Or someone.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
