She told me once, tears in her eyes, “I haven’t felt this alive in twenty years.” Then her children found out. Dorothy’s daughter Sarah called me. Demanded to know what was going on. Why was a “criminal” spending time with her mother? Was he stealing from her? Taking advantage of her?
I told Sarah the truth. Her mother was happier than she’d been in years. Dorothy was eating better. Moving more. Laughing. Living. Sarah didn’t care. “She’s not thinking clearly. The Parkinson’s affects her judgment. We’re going to stop this.”
The family showed up two weeks later. All three children. They barged into Dorothy’s apartment while Michael was there. Started yelling. Accusing him of elder abuse. Financial exploitation. Manipulation.
Dorothy stood up from her chair. Actually stood up, which she rarely did anymore. “Get out of my house.” Sarah tried to take her mother’s hand. “Mom, we’re trying to protect you. This man is dangerous.”
“This man,” Dorothy said, her voice shaking with rage, “has been here every single day for two months. Where have you been? Christmas? Thanksgiving? My birthday?” She pointed at Michael. “He was here. He’s always here. And you dare call him dangerous?”
