We left for a quiet anniversary, believing my dad would be cared for by John’s parents. He still lived in the house he had built with my mom, loving it the way people love a person. When they arrived, they were cheerful and eager—but by dinnertime, their attentions had shifted. They criticized the house, his habits, and spoke openly about moving him out, never lowering their voices. Dad listened, poured tea, and said nothing.
Three days before we returned, he calmly agreed with them. “Maybe it’s time to move,” he said—and asked if they’d help him pack. Delighted, they boxed his books, photos, and clothes, measured rooms, and planned renovations as if the house were already theirs. When Dad suggested they pack their own things, they happily agreed, assuming he meant storage.
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