After that morning, it became a routine. I became the person she talked to every day. Somewhere along the way, she stopped feeling like a patient and started feeling like family.
I’d bring Gloria tea after my shift, and she’d tell me stories about growing up on a farm, about her late husband, and about the way people used to dance in kitchens when the radio played the right song.
She never mentioned family visiting, because nobody ever did, unlike the other residents.
It became a routine.
“I had a nephew once,” Gloria told me one evening, stirring her tea more slowly than usual. “Marcus. He stopped visiting once he realized I wasn’t leaving anytime soon. But he’ll come back the moment he hears I’m gone. People are like that, Daniel. You’ll learn.”
“You don’t seem bitter about it,” I said.
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“Bitterness is a house I refuse to live in.”
“I had a nephew once.”
