The house felt too big.

My mom began talking about downsizing right after my dad died. “It’s just me and the dog in this place,” she’d say, her voice echoing down the hallway as I called her on the way home from work. She spent most nights in the den watching the Chicago Bulls, a shared love with my dad that now made her feel close to him. I tried to help her fill the space, spending a night or two a week at her place, but the silence remained.

The signs were subtle at first. She fell again, this time off the front steps, bruising her ribs on the garden fence. Her car was back in the shop after she scraped the passenger side pulling out of the garage. A quiet hesitation had begun to shape her movements. So, when she said she wanted to tour continuing care communities a few months later,

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