Everyone in our small town knew she was quietly wealthy, even if she still bought generic cereal.
After the hip fracture, the hospital social worker gently suggested we look into a caregiver. I couldn’t be there full time; I still work. Mark works.
My kids have their own lives. Mom didn’t need a nursing home, just someone to help with mobility, meds, cooking, and keeping her safe.
So I did the responsible daughter thing and started interviewing caregivers.
Enter Alyssa.
Twenty-six. Calm smile.
Soft voice. She showed up at Mom’s house in light-blue scrubs with a neat bun and sneakers that looked like they meant business. She had a binder under her arm.
A binder.
We sat at the kitchen table, and she slid it toward me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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