Chapter One
From the opening pages
I want to be honest about something before we go any further, because I think it matters more than the comfort of pretending otherwise: I wasn’t the one who cared for my own mother. My brother was. My two daughters were. They were the ones who took her shopping, who noticed the small, accumulating signs as her glaucoma slowly took more and more of her sight, who were actually there for the thousand ordinary tasks that kind of care involves. I was somewhere else in the world, the way I so often was.
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