sizes too big. She watched me carry the flowers past her door.
“You visit her a lot,” she said.
“She’s my mother.”
Margaret tilted her head. “She’s the sweetest soul here. You’re lucky.”
Something in the way she said it made me look away.
I started skipping lunch to make the drive across town.
Tim called that Friday. His voice was clipped.
“You don’t need to go midweek, Jeremy. This is just a job. Keep it simple.”
“She gets lonely.”
“She has dementia. She forgets the second you leave.”
I
