They laughed. About something on TV. While I sat in the cold listening.
That’s when it settled into place. The clarity. The understanding.They weren’t caring for me. They were warehousing me. Until they could dispose of me more permanently.
And something in me—the part that had spent thirty-eight years in courtrooms watching families lie about caring for elderly parents—woke up.
I stood up. Buttoned my coat. Walked into the kitchen.Set an envelope on the table. Beside the sugar bowl. Beside Thomas’s coffee.
He reached for it without thinking. Saw the return address.
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