The Home of Golden Meadows (1)

I never gave much thought to aging. My mother died at home in the apartment she grew up in and my father died right there beside her. My sisters and I visited, playing bridge on Sunday afternoons and when she said she was sick, we encouraged her to go to a hospital. I knew she wouldn’t go. When she refused, I was relieved and when I was relieved, I was guilty. I am my mother’s luck.

My name is Rosemary Bergin and I’m a good woman. I married Irish. I pretended I was still Catholic until the day my parents died. I took care of my sick husband and four obese daughters. I worked hard. And now I don’t work at all.

Time wasn’t my friend when I lived alone. My daughters put me in this home because they think their time is more valuable. Maybe they are right. Maybe they are selfish. Maybe they eat to feel productive.