As Henry sipped his tea, the words started coming.
Slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking.
His wife had died three years ago. After that, the dementia started creeping in… not the severe kind where you forget your own name, but the early stages. Memory gaps that felt like missing stairs in the dark, moments of confusion that left him feeling lost in his own life.
That morning, he’d woken up thinking about the old days.
The gas station where he and his wife used to stop for burgers on Sunday afternoons. The booth by the window where they’d sit and talk about nothing and everything.
“Do you have a family?” I asked gingerly. “Someone I can call?”
He nodded and pulled a small, weathered pocket diary from his bathrobe.
Inside were names and phone numbers written in shaky handwriting.
I took the diary and stepped outside to make the calls. I don’t know why I expected his children to care, but I did.
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