None of this is new. But hearing it laid out like a quarterly loss report still cuts deep.
“We’re recommending a transition to the Memory Care unit,” Margaret says gently. “It’s a more secure environment, structured daily routines, higher staff-to-resident ratio. He’ll still have access to activities, therapy, everything he enjoys, just...with more support.”
Support. Right.
Another word for slowly losing the person you used to know.
Another word for watching a man who once ran multimillion-dollar acquisitions get lost between breakfast and lunch.
I drag a hand through my hair, letting the silence hang heavy between us.
“He talks to me about deals,” I say out of the blue. My voice sounds rough, like it’s fighting its way out. “Mergers. Hostile takeovers. It’s all bullshit now, but... I let him.”
Margaret’s smile softens. “That’s common. The strongest memories—the ones tied to identity—tend to hold on the longest.”
Identity.
My father isn’t the man who called every shot in the boardroom anymore. But it’s the only version of him left that feels remotely familiar.
Margaret flips another page. “I know it’s a lot to process, but Memory Care is really about quality of life. Preserving dignity. Giving him a space where he’s not overwhelmed or afraid.”
I nod, jaw tight.
I get it.
I fucking hate it.
But I get it.
She slides a form across the table—authorization paperwork. I pick up the pen and hover it over the line, heart hammering, the realization that I’m signing something bigger than just a transfer kicking in. I’m signing off on the last remnants of the man who raised me.
Or tried to.
When he wasn’t chasing deals. When he wasn’t drowning in ambition so loud it drowned everything else out.
Including me.
The pen scratches against the paper, sealing the decision neither of us ever wanted to make.
Margaret stands, smoothing her skirt. “Take your time. He’s in the garden if you want to see him. He’s been asking for you.”
I look up.
And for a second, I’m not the man I’ve built myself into.
I’m the kid standing at the door of his father’s office, waiting for permission to step inside.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I’ll go find him.”
When I step back into the hallway, the scent of rain drifts in through the open door leading out to the garden. I need to remind myself that some things don’t stop just because I’m not ready. Like people getting older. Life moves on.
I follow the signs toward the garden, bracing for impact.
The rain starts up again as I make my way across the manicured path to the garden courtyard.
It’s soft at first, barely there, a whisper brushing over the hedges and benches.
Dad’s sitting under the awning, his wheelchair turned toward the little koi pond they have set up, even though most of the fish are probably hiding from the storm.
