I walked out the back door of the nursing home with nothing but bus fare and a handbag. My children had said I was confused, but they just didn’t like what I did with my land. So they locked me away, sold my house, and cleared out the women I was helping.
That’s when I started planning payback. I tried escaping from the nursing home the easy way first — through the front door. I was just reaching for the door handle when a voice called out behind me.
“Ma’am, you’re not allowed to leave without an escort.”
The young woman at the front desk said it gently, the way you’d speak to a child. She had kind eyes. I almost felt bad about what I was going to do.
“Oh, of course, dear. Thank you for reminding me.”
I glanced back once, just to make sure no one was chasing me yet, and kept walking. I caught the city bus three blocks down, the one that runs to the outskirts of town.
I watched the familiar sights of the city pass by as I thought back to the family lunch two weeks ago when everything had changed. ***
It was a perfect afternoon. I felt so lucky, sitting on the porch with my children, thinking about all the years we’d had together.
“I’ve made Lauren my medical power of attorney,” I said. “Just in case anything happens. My house and the cottages I’ve built will go into a trust after I pass.
I want my little housing project for women who need a fresh start to continue after I’m gone.”
The table went quiet; not the comfortable kind of quiet — the other kind. Brian cleared his throat. “You mean strangers get the land, not your own family?”
Lauren didn’t say anything, but she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.
One week later, Lauren insisted on taking me for a routine checkup. The doctor smiled kindly and asked if I’d been forgetting things, if I ever lost track of time, or felt disoriented. Before I could answer, Lauren jumped in.
“She called me twice last month for our Sunday chat,” she said, frowning worriedly. “The second time, she didn’t even remember the first.”
Lauren gave the doctor the soft, pitying look children give when they’re “being patient” with their elderly parents. More questions followed, which I answered honestly.
Yes, I forgot things sometimes; yes, I felt anxious occasionally; and no, I didn’t always eat properly. Next thing I knew, I was being admitted to a nursing home for observation. My phone disappeared, my mail stopped coming, and when I asked questions, I got vague answers and patronizing smiles.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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