She set the gravy boat down so hard it sloshed onto the tablecloth.
When I was fifteen, Grandpa had his stroke.
It happened on a Tuesday in March, in his kitchen. A neighbor found him on the floor. He was in the hospital for three weeks, then a rehab center for two months. I begged to visit. Mom took me once. He couldn’t talk much. One side of his face drooped. But when he saw me, he squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
After that, everything changed.
Mom and Dad got power of attorney while Grandpa was recovering. Then, about six months later, they went to court and got something bigger. A conservatorship. That meant a judge put them in charge of all of Grandpa’s money and all of his decisions, because they said he couldn’t make decisions for himself anymore.
They told everyone it was dementia. That the stroke had damaged his brain and he was getting confused.
