It’s been more than three years since you moved, since you gave me that look of such complete confusion when our son came to get you. He said it was time to go and that you’d be better off there. I could tell you didn’t believe him. That you would rather stay here with me, where everything was familiar. I let you rest in my gaze for a moment, and I wanted nothing more than for you to stay. But I took your hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and said: “Hans is right—you’ll be much happier there.” Every single fiber of me disagreed, but I knew I couldn’t take care of you.
