I stopped.
“Melissa, what is this?”
She wouldn’t look at me.
“Mom, I already arranged everything.”
One was Robert and me on our thirty-fifth anniversary.
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“You packed my suitcase?”
“You’ll have meals here. Nurses. Physical therapy if you need it. People around all the time.”
“You packed my bedroom.”
“Just what you’ll need.”
“Without me.”
Her voice dropped.
“If I’d asked, you would’ve said no.”
“You packed my bedroom.”
“Of course I would have.”
A woman at the desk suddenly became very interested in her computer.
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Melissa reached for my hand.
I pulled it away.
“How long?”
“Let’s see how you do.”
“Of course I would have.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said.
“It’s for your own good.”
There was a phrase that had apparently survived my entire adulthood just waiting for my daughter to use it on me.
I held out my hand.
