My 93-year-old father hasn’t known my brother or me for two years. On rare occasions, he expresses a vague inkling that I’m the guy who cooks dinner, but that’s the exception rather than the rule. Most days, Dad sees only a potentially dangerous stranger — his unknown son — approaching the home he and Mom have shared for 60 years. I hear him yell out for her, his voice thick with confusion and panic, “Ruth! Somebody’s at the door!”
At first that bothered me; now it’s just normal.
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