He started feeding the dog off his plate—but then I saw what was really going on.
It started the day my grandpa moved in with us. We’d converted the den into a bedroom for him, stuck a recliner near the window, and filled the bookshelf with his Louis L’Amour novels and old photo albums. He didn’t say much the first week—just nodded and shuffled around the house with the slow, careful steps of someone who didn’t fully trust the ground beneath him.
He’d had a minor stroke two months prior, and his doctor said routine was everything now. That, and engagement. Keep him stimulated. Talk to him. Include him.
It was harder than I thought it would be.
