He points to another clause. “And this—they’ll fund a scholarship program for family caregivers, five thousand dollars annually for ten years. Fifty thousand total to help other people in situations like yours.”
I read the scholarship provision carefully. “That wasn’t my idea.”
“It was mine,” Marcus admits. “But it only happens if you agree. The money will help prevent other families from experiencing what you went through.”
I think about other mothers in cold guest rooms, other fathers made small in their children’s big houses.
“Yes,” I say. “I agree.”
The apartment Marcus and his wife helped me find is small but warm—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen big enough for a table where friends can sit. The heat works. The shower has safety bars. Sunlight pours through the windows.
It’s mine. Really mine.
Vincent brought furniture from storage. Rhonda visits twice a week with groceries and stories about the letters her article generated from people all over Ohio who recognized themselves in my experience.
